


Black Dog

by Bizu_Campeche



Series: A Horse with No Name [2]
Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Blood Nation (Cyberpunk 2020), Borderline Personality Disorder, Canonical Character Death, Cultural Differences, Cultural References, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Language Barrier, Loneliness, Male-Female Friendship, May/December Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, The Gargoyles Pack (Cyberpunk 2020), Unreliable Narrator, rated for later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 11:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30138783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bizu_Campeche/pseuds/Bizu_Campeche
Summary: After losing her family to the Snake Nation/Bakker Clan merger, V finds an oasis in Jackie's circle of friends. And then she loses everything to a moment of poor judgment.Vik is used to losing friends at his age and in this profession, but Jackie's loss hits him like a truck. When he can't help V when she needs it the most, he starts to question his life's choices.
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand & V, Misty Olszewski & V, Misty Olszewski & Viktor Vector, V & Jackie Welles, V & Mama Welles (Cyberpunk 2077), V & Viktor Vector, V/Viktor Vector, Viktor Vector & Jackie Welles
Series: A Horse with No Name [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209992
Comments: 143
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V meets Jackie and the crew. Vik finds yet another stray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my helpful betas, Thorn and Sarna!

V’s dragging behind Jackie on an extended tour of Night City. So far, she's met the man's mother and the bartender at her bar (Jackie claims she's adopted Pepe), a few of the current and ex-Valentinos, the unsettling figure that is Padre, and now Jackie's insisting they go meet his girlfriend, Misty. She's sweet, if a little unusual, with a gentle voice somehow both nasal and throaty like a kitten's and large, mysterious eyes to match that crinkle with kindness behind layers of sooty makeup, even more so when she's listening to Jackie ramble on about the Lesser Antillean 'ganic iguana they’d managed to sell and how he's going to use the eddies to put a custom paint job on his bike and how fucking _chida_ she (the bike) is going to look, but that he wishes he could have kept the iguana... 

Yeah. Jackie is a talker.

“Speakin' of which,” he announces, drumming his hands on the counter, “lemme introduce ya to Viky.”

Misty nods her head toward the back door. “Shop's through the alley, in the basement. C'mon, I'll show you,” she says, and Jackie barrels ahead of them like he's meeting a long-lost friend.

Spending her entire life out on the open road hasn't prepared her for Night City's peculiar smells, and they are particularly stagnant and thick in the alley: festering garbage, urine, and spilled beer. Like being locked in a gas station bathroom where they've run out of toilet paper. During the summer. But she manages to repress, if not hide, her gagging in the name of politeness. She's not a completely feral Nomad, after all; she knows she's a guest. And if running with the Gargoyles during her formative years taught her anything, it was not to insult a hospitable person's home.

V can't deny she wasn't the slightest bit disappointed when Jackie mentioned having a girlfriend; sure, he isn't her type—her past dalliances had taught her that she had a thing for the lankier, cerebral 'runner types—but he’s authentic, hilarious even when he isn't trying to be, and he makes her feel comfortable when she'd lost her family and wandered into the monster that was Night City. She's also aware of how some people are with their significant others and it would have sucked if his input was the jealous type. Thankfully enough, Misty wasn't, _isn't._ So, when Jackie mentions this “Viky”, she imagines she's his sister or a cousin or something.

However, the one who responds to the name is a man to rival Jackie's hulking size. His hair is coarse, unruly, and dry. His pale skin is pocked with scars from old and current acne, and he sports tinted glasses indoors for some reason. His movements are streamlined, precise, confident, those of a lifelong athlete and even more spry than she is, but the lines over his forehead and next to his lips suggest he's much older than he looks. Altogether, she guesses he's in his late forties. Late fifties, tops. And, holy shit, his biceps look thicker than her thighs, and that is a feat in itself.

It's the crooked smile he gives Jackie as he opens the gate that does her in, however, radiating youth and self-assuredness without the recklessness common to younger people. She finds she can’t look away.

“Viktor! _¿Qué ondas, wey?”_ Jackie opens his arms wide. Vik punches him in the gut with an incongruent grin, before pounding their fists together.

_Viktor. Of course._

“Ya freeloading son of a bitch. Got my eddies yet?” His good-natured voice is deep, gravelly, and V is suddenly unsure of what her “type” is anymore.

Jackie coughs in between shared laughs, rubbing his stomach. “Plus interest, holmes, plus interest! Watch me.”

A device tucked into his sleeve receives the transfer with a beep and blink of a blue LED. Old school tech. He huffs. “Wasn't bein' serious, but shit, kid. Some gig ya must've pulled.”

“Tell ya 'bout it tonight. Couldn't'a done it without this one right here, though.” Jackie's powerful arm grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her in for a side hug. She isn't much of a hugger, but he's become a brother to her in less than a week, so she supposes she can tolerate it for a bit longer. “This is my new friend, V. Nomad. What clan you ride with, again?”

“Ex-nomad,” she clarifies. _“Used_ to ride with the Bakkers. It’s, uh, complicated.”

“Right...V, meet Viktor Vector.” He waves his hands in a grand gesture. “Best fuckin' ripperdoc in Watson.”

He's sizing her up, she can tell, his ornately tatted arms crossed over his chest. “Hey, V.” If not for the more polite curve to his lips and the firm yet gentle handshake, she could’ve easily mistaken his subdued response for hostility. “Nice to meet ya. Welcome to Night City.”

Her throat is the Mojave right now, tumbleweeds and all. “Uh, hey,” she croaks and manages a weak wave. “Thanks.”

There's a small chuckle behind her. Misty has the sleeve of her oversized sweater over her mouth.

_Oh, no. She’s just met her and she already knows._

Jackie goes on to exaggerate their little expedition, how they both conned the pants off the border agents (Jackie sat in the car fighting off the sweats), blew up sixteen Militech cars (it was maybe five, tops), found a buyer from the Valentinos and, when he tried to short them on eddies, she fought off his boys with her bare fists (okay, that much was true, but there were three of them and Jackie helped with the last one).

“Well, shit. Now that he likes ya, he's gonna follow ya everywhere,” Vik teases. “Been trying to get him off my back for years.”

“Like fuck you will!”

“By the way, what cyberdeck you got, kid?” Cyberdeck? He wants to know what cyberdeck software she has? Holy shit, what software _does_ she have? She hasn't updated it in years. Has this thing about ripperdocs, part touch, part looking into her records. Pieces of her past that are better left there. “Gotta be something impressive.”

She catches herself reaching for her port, then crosses her arms. “I, uh, don't know. Doesn't matter. Trying to save up for a place instead.”

“Viky'll take care of ya, no sweat.” Jackie beams, smacking him on the shoulder. Vik's posture does not budge. “Right?”

“Yeah, come on.” Despite being put on the spot, there is no strain when he speaks. “Lemme finish up on this client and I'll take a look. See what recs I can give ya.”

She doesn't say no, so she winds up with this awe-strikingly attractive man's face a few inches from her neck and his hands hovering over that spot she discovered (thanks to that talented asshole in Miami) makes her eyes roll into the back of her head.

And he's about to give her that look and ask her. She can feel it. He stops his scan to frown at the screen, as if there's some kind of mistake, but no. That is her real, legal name: Baby Girl Benítez. She doesn't know anyone else with parents who forgot to register their newborn child, but her uncle’d insisted he knew a few kids back in New York with deadbeat parents too. He’d gone with calling her “Verónica”, if only to save face, and some past friends with “Ronnie”, but even those names are an artifact of her past. The name “V” is of her own making and, as far as she's concerned, the only one that matters.

Her cat-like white irises reflect back at her from his glasses, but they don't obscure how he's looking at her. Analyzing. Taking her apart. Putting her back together.

But to her relief, he doesn't ask. He tells her he's got a Militech Paraline Mk. 1 coming in on Tuesday and that he'll spot her for it, put it on a tab like he's done for Jackie a million times, but when she tries to turn it down (another quaint thing in her particular Gargoyles family: reject gifts and kind gestures a few times so you don't look like you're taking advantage of someone's good will) Vik claims Jackie is a great judge of character and that any friend of Jack's is a friend of his.

Maybe she won't be so alone in this city after all.

—

  
  


It's a simple job: another solo with the glint of eurodollar-hunger in her eyes wanting the newest, shiniest targeting implant, insisting she's not like other mercs, that she'll make it in this ouroboros world of corpo-soldiers for rent. A bitter reality for everyone, particularly ripperdocs to accept—particularly if they still gave half a damn like Vik does. He knows better, though. Only a matter of time before she leaves Night City in a cardboard urn and those implants are sitting in some corpo's clinic, or some scavenger's den, and finally in some back-alley ripperdoc's inventory.

The metallic groan and shake of the gate Misty had installed for him makes him tense up. The lock is clearly red: occupied. And there is no way the fucker outside doesn't see him at his operating chair working on this person. The scowl on his lips dies when he sees it's none other than that giant lug of a gonk, Jackie Welles and his billion-watt grin. The fuzzy silhouette of Misty's hair looms behind him, and some other person he can't quite make out from the low lighting.

His jovial greeting echoes through the relatively empty clinic.

Now, he could just open the gate and grab the kid into a headlock, ask him where the fuck he's been these past three weeks without a single call or message on the holo, gripe about how it's all fallen on him to calm poor Mama Welles' nerves regarding why her last remaining son isn't picking up the holo, and that the usually serene Misty has been moping around, quietly, but obviously enough for even Vik to notice. But, after washing his hands, he settles on teasing him about that lost bet on the match from December and the money the gonk owes him, adding a playful punch to the gut for good measure.

Much to his surprise, he pays it all, interest and everything. Feels a little wrong taking a kid's hard-earned money, even if they'd agreed to it, but Jackie seems like he's on top of the world without a single care. It's a stage of life here, being this starry-eyed kid, dreaming of rising above the suffocating muck and grime until you reach the top and then you have it all: eddies, luxury, friends, and someone special at your side; Vik knows by now the dream is as real as fairy tales, as Santa Claus and every other magical figure everyone's taught in the name of keeping hope alive. But that's a hard truth for everyone to figure out for themselves.

Jackie grabs the much shorter stranger into a powerful side-hug: close-cropped bleached hair and sparse, dark eyebrows (right one double pierced to match the several studs and hoops on both ears), and fashion optics with black sclera and white, cat-like irises. It's an altogether otherworldly look and he can't quite tell this person's ethnicity nor gender, though he can take a guess from the sun-warmed brown of their skin and the tribal-like tattoos near the collarbone similar to that of the Voodoo Boys that they're from some Caribbean background.

“This is my new friend, V,” Jackie announces, then introduces them.

Up until now they haven't spoken, hands buried deep in the pockets of a purple hoodie three sizes too big, inked-out legs poking out of basketball shorts, bouncing to some unheard rhythm. Antsy. Probably the kind never to sit still out of the need to have their hands in something.

It's when Misty catches him staring that he snaps out of it and introduces himself with a proper handshake. “Hey, V. Nice to meet ya. Welcome to Night City.” Her hand is small in his, but rough, definitely used to hard work and fighting through pain.

Full, plump lips move to speak, then hesitate. Throat clearing, they speak, a throaty but soft voice. “Uh, hey. Thanks.”

Jackie mentions all the mischief they’ve been up to, all the while referring to V as “she.” V doesn’t react, so he figures she’s comfortable with it. For the way Jackie talks her up, she seems to be reserved, almost uncomfortable. Unused to strangers maybe. Small frame for all the hurt he claims she metes out, but he's experienced enough to recognize that bantam and featherweights are a force to be reckoned with, taking better speed and agility into account. And from the heavily tattooed but toned abdominal muscles peeking out from her crop top, her core is solid, so whatever jabs she can throw are going to do some damage. A wonder Fred hasn't snatched her up into that boxing club of his, that greasy son of a bitch.

He finishes up on his impatient patient, tying off the last sutures, giving meds he knows she won't bother to properly take.

Jackie's known for being a good judge of character—except when there are stacks of eddies involved—so Vik offers to check out her cyberware, to see if he has anything to help her out on their next gig. She flinches when he touches near her port and, for a second, he mistakes it for soreness until he notices the spread of fine goosebumps proliferating over her skin under his fingertips and he has to fight to keep his professional composure.

_Hah. Duly noted._

The screen before him lists her medical history, stemming from clinics in the Boston-Washington area, to one in the South and two in the Midwest. There is only one on the West Coast and it is from a mobile clinic. Nomad ripperdoc, surely. But what gets him is her legal name. Not a single V in sight.

**[Baby Girl Benítez]**

He's used to names like these tagged onto newborns' ankles at hospitals before they were registered, remembering having to place them on tiny toe tags on stillbirths or children's corpses during his Trauma Team days. Then there were the kids passing through the group homes, those there from day one, whose parents hadn't bothered to name them, or didn't get a chance to. Vik ventures a guess that she's from one of the latter categories.

Her cyberdeck is an outdated model from the early 70s, he wants to say. Must not use it much. A hard techie. Calloused hands and the permanent grease stains under her short, bitten fingernails are proof enough of that.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she says when he offers her the model coming in. “Don't got the scratch for it right now. Anyways, this old thing's a classic. Never failed me yet.”

“Consider it an investment, then. I'll work on ya, 'n when you're swimmin' in eddies, ya pay ol' Vik back.”

Something like distrust flashes across her face, sight going from Jackie (who's nodding eagerly at her), and then to Misty. Reassuring her that he's done the same for Jackie seems to ease her inhibition and she relents, agreeing to come see him next week.

Later, she leaves with Jackie—back home to Lupe's, he ventures—but Misty lingers behind, helping him clean up the blood and meat from the trays when she really doesn't have to. Other than possibly being the kindest person in Night City, she has no reason to play his nurse or assistant. And yet she's here almost every other day, helping him organize his things according to feng shui, guessing his state of mind from his pulse alone, placing crystals in one of his desk drawers to ward off bad energy, or checking in on the stray cat lingering by the stairs to his shop. Ya feed 'em once and they keep comin', just like Jackie. (She didn't need to know he'd grown attached to the stray and named her Floyd. It's not like he went around checking what was under animals' hoods. Dammit, he’s a ripperdoc, not a veterinarian.)

“I think she's got something special,” Misty says, replacing the rolls of bandages in the cabinet. “Don't you?”

It catches him off guard. “Floyd?”

She scrunches her face. “Who's Floyd?”

“ _Oh,_ you mean Ba—uh, V.” He's not sure. Seemed 'dorphed out, though it could have also been nerves. Somehow polite and yet distant. Not enough time to get a good read on her. “Sure. Jackie seems to like her well enough.”

“Mhm.” She's holding up the dustpan for him. “Think she'll be a good partner for him. Even him out. You know how excitable he is.”

Someone has to keep him in line. Kid is going to get himself killed one of these days, charging headfirst into shitty gigs and mouthing off to the wrong person. And if V is the quiet, perceptive kind she seems to be, then she could possibly keep that at bay for some time.

“So, who's Floyd?”

Vik groans. She's not gonna let this one go, is she?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V works on Vik's car as a thank-you. Vik is not amused by Jackie's antics.

Paying Vik back is a challenge, however, with the prohibitive cost of food, medicine, and insurance in Night City; no matter how many jobs she and Jackie take on with Padre and, later, Wakako, she barely scrounges up the eddies to afford a daily vending machine sawdust burrito. Shit, she still hasn't found a place on her own and had been sleeping on Doña Welles' couch for the first three months. It isn't until Jackie claims he's got a guy who owes him a favor back at a megabuilding in Watson that she manages to squeeze into getting a little studio apartment with recently-evicted residents. Sure, she has to scrub questionable stains off the walls and floors—the bathroom being the worst of it, of course—but it's all hers for once. No more moving around, no more sleeping in cars and RVs and dubious motels with rickety locks and carpets made of hypo syringes, nor wondering where the hell she'd end up next. This is hers, a new home. And from the looks of it, a new family.

After a “retrieval” gig gone awry, she's at Vik's kind mercies again as he digs three bullets out of her arm and side. Fourth one is a through-and-through, which he claims is a good thing. She's not too sure about that. As if closing her eyes would distract her from the discomfort of having foreign objects ripped out of her muscle tissue, she concentrates on the hum of the HVAC, the occasional click of the little mini-fridge in the back where he keeps his bench and weights, and the scent of rubbing alcohol, motor oil, and his aftershave. But as soon as he's sewing her back up, she lets her eyes wander over anything but Vik. Too awkward.

His navy blue Quadra Type-66 Avenger sits far in the back of the clinic sectioned away with plastic curtains, with its hood propped up.

“Ol’ girl giving ya trouble?” she asks.

“Usual. Keeps diving headfirst and getting her ass kicked.”

“Oh, har-har. I meant the Avenger.”

He pauses mid-stitch, glances at the car, then goes back to work. “Mhm. Goes dead on me every now and then. Think the noise is the worst.”

V hums. “Whiny?”

“Mhm.”

“Smells like a burning condom factory?”

Vik chuckles and nods.

“Sounds like ya need a new alternator, choomba.”

“Figured as much. Problem is, Miguel's waiting for the part to come back in stock. Lookin' at a month or so.”

While Quadras are a mainstay on Night City roads, the cost of new parts is astronomical. Nomads being the resourceful sort, however, refurbishing said parts and pawning them off as new is as easy as nuking a cup of RaMmmen.

“Can I take a look?” she asks when he's done.

He shrugs, his instruments clanking down into the bin as he places them in disinfectant. “Be my guest.”

The scent of burning rubber hits her from a few feet away. Definitely the alternator. And since sports cars have to be so finicky, of course, it's in some weird-ass spot that has her contorting her freshly-patched-up side.

“Serpentine belt's gone to shit too, _'mano.”_

“Yeah, yeah. Ain't re-doing your stitches again, so leave it alone and rest.” And he's back at his monitor watching the latest match.

Damn it. He's right. Even if she could stay in that position for longer than two minutes without popping a stitch, she lacks the tools and parts to do anything. So, she asks him to wait over the weekend, that she'll have something for him on Monday. He doesn't need to know it involves ripping a few parts from unsuspecting rich kids' rides from Wellsprings—their corpo-rat parents'll just buy them a new hypercar or some shit like that—and scavving the rest from a junkyard. Besides, it isn't like Vik always gets his cyberware from legal places, either. They're both more than eager to take advantage whenever anything happens to “fall off the AV.”

Yeah, it earns her a split lip, but nothing that won't heal on its own.

While Jackie's off in front with Misty, V lets herself into Vik's clinic while he's deep in someone's skull, probably removing some experimental chip or some shit. Gonk move, putting shit in your head like that. No telling what it'll do: fry your brain, give you a neurovirus...could be anything.

So, she gets to work. It'll take a while, replacing the bearing, rectifier, brushes and regulator, soldering the lead wires back, remembering where all those tiny fucking screws and cables go, topping it off with a shiny new plastic cover and an intact serpentine belt. But, for a choom like Vik, it's worth it. He's done more for her than most people, almost too kind for his own good. She's convinced he'll never see her as more than a kid, being twenty-eight years her senior, and maybe for now that's good enough. Doesn't mean she'll stop trying to get his attention, though. Not like he hasn't seen most of her before; bullets are indiscriminate when it comes to body parts. But with any luck, her thin, ribbed crop top can help her gauge any hint of attraction.

Instead, once she's tightening the bolts back up, she gets shit from Jackie.

“Holy shit, _mija._ You're gonna lose a _chicha_ bent over that engine like that!” he laughs, using yet another slang word she's had to register and translate between their versions of Spanish.

As good of a big brother type that Jackie is proving to be, sometimes he's a little much, to the point V wishes she could kick the guy in the neck. Vik clears his throat, and from her limited view over her shoulder, she spots his gaze returning to the patient on his chair, unfazed.

“Man, if you want _tetas,_ go look at Misty's.” The last screw tightens in and she straightens back up. “'Sides, I'm done.”

“Woulda offered ya my jumpsuit if I'd'a known Jackie was gonna give you shit,” Viktor says quietly and trails off, laser-focused on cauterizing the patient's cranial incision back up.

“C'mooooon. No shame in admitting ya wanted a show, holmes.”

“Sure, kid. Favorite hobby is reattaching nipples.”

Every nerve in her body screams that it's time to delta the fuck out of here; there's only so much embarrassment one can take in a day and she's sure she's had a couple of months' worth. Why she ever thought this was a good idea, she can't remember.

“I'm out.” She heads toward the gate without looking back, thankful for melanin and the pinkish neon glow of the Kiroshi sign obscuring the hot flush over her cheeks. “Ring me on the holo if ya have any more problems with it.”

To her relief, as she opened the door to the alley, she hears him.

“Thanks, V.”

  
  


—

In all honesty, he’d forgotten V had even offered to take another look at the Quadra until the rusty metal gate screeched open. Confusing her for an impatient client, he almost barks up at the intruder until he catches a glimpse of the spread of tattoos adorning her lower back and the length of her arms, and the dusty toolboxes swinging from her hands.

Another Thursday, another chrome-head's skull to drill through. Custom gold plated titanium skull cap. A shame what the sport of boxing has come to. Long gone are the days of pure discipline and training. No, now it's all about who has the best chrome, the latest implants. Misty insists it's just him showing his age and disdain for change. While she's not completely wrong (and he would never admit it), he maintains that a sport ain't a sport when skill ain't a factor; it's a hyped-up fashion show with violence. But, catering to this new breed of “athlete” pays the rent and the occasional pay-per-view match, so he supposes he can't complain too much.

There are a couple of muttered words in that nasal Spanish he isn't quite accustomed to, and she's bent over a table, absorbed with a tiny soldering tool over one of the alternator brushes. She chews at her tongue when she's concentrating, he's noticed. The piercings on her eyebrow serve to highlight her frown.

How many piercings does she have, he wonders while he stitches this gonk's scalp back together. V's ears are covered in hoops and studs, with an industrial piercing over her upper cartilage, and there's a tiny stud over her right nostril. There's the one on her navel she's currently wearing. And he swears he's seen a glint of metal on her tongue now and then.

He isn't a stranger to them. Aside from the gauges he kept from his youth, he used to sport black hoop snakebites, with matching circular barbells over his nipples before he got into active boxing. He learned the hard way not to wear them during a match. They'd closed up long ago anyway.

And then there are...

Oh, fuck.

It isn't until she's holding something up to the light that he notices (and remembers) the barbells pressing behind her top. He's seen them up close before, but something about lancing and stitching infected bullet wounds from her shoulder or ribs rightfully had grabbed all of his attention. A different context from now, where they're coyly peering behind clothing, secured over healthy dark flesh. Do they match the stainless steel color of her other piercings? Why is that question nagging at him, and worse yet, why does not remembering bother him so much?

Vik takes a deep breath in an attempt to refocus on finishing up wiring the processor beneath the client's ear.

There. Not sexy at all.

He's old enough to be her father, or worse yet, a grandfather. While she'd been losing her baby teeth, Vik'd already had two jobs, a mortgage, divorce papers, and an alcohol problem.

“You good?” the patient asks, side-eyeing him.

He grunts. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because you keep sighing in my fuckin' ear and it's a lil' fuckin' uncomfortable.”

Before he can apologize, Jackie bursts through the door like he pays rent, shouting something about tits. It takes V's retort before he can realize _whose._

The glimmer of a drop of sweat disappears into the low neckline of her shirt and his throat goes dry. It's the guilt. Definitely the guilt. And when their gazes meet, his tongue is ready to crumble in his mouth.

“Woulda offered ya my jumpsuit if I'd'a known Jackie was gonna give you shit.” But it's a distraction, a misdirection, and if he's lucky, he can blend into the neon signs' rosy lighting.

Shouldn't surprise him when Jackie calls him out on his bullshit. Of course, he would notice; how could anyone not? Thanks to Vik's 52nd birthday party some three years ago, Jackie likely remembered his affinity for piercings on the dancer he, Fred and Pepe hired.

V storms out while the gratitude is still leaving his tongue.

“Aaa, she's just embarrassed, _'mano._ Don't worry about it.”

He isn't. Or wasn't. Not until now anyway. “Thought we were past the point of me havin' to tell ya you don't have to say everything that pops into that gonk brain of yours.”

“And I thought we were past the point where I gotta tell ya someone has the hots for ya.”

Who, V?

Jackie tends to spend half of his time in Vik’s chair, getting bullets ripped out of him, stitches put in, resetting or replacing bones and, despite all his lack of forethought as to his actions he feels the need to overanalyze people, see shit that just isn't there. He'd once come to him crying about Misty avoiding going to El Coyote Cojo because he’d insisted she was ashamed of being with some uneducated streetkid as if it didn't have anything to do with Lupe's obsession with him procreating with Camila.

“If you ain't here to help clean up, get your ass back to Misty's.”

He gives him that goofy ear-to-ear grin and holds his hands out. “I'm goin', I'm goin'.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackie's birthday party brings about several revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of food, vomiting
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful betas, Thorn and Sarna!

March comes around and so does Jackie's birthday. Doña Lupe insists on a big fiesta at El Coyote, starring her famous chilaquiles, tacos dorados, and pibil-style contraband poultry (a gift courtesy of V, smuggled from a connection in Pacifica). The music makes V's eardrums hurt, the beer and tequila flow like a fountain, and there is so. Much. Fucking. Food. And just when she thinks they've run out of something, Pepe hauls out another aluminum tray and V wants to cry. This may just be the best party she's been to in a while.

 _"_ Did you have the _tamales?”_ Señora Welles asks.

There are tamales, too? Her stomach gurgles as if making the space for them. Oh, yeah. She's definitely going to cry.

 _“Come, mija, come.”_ Eat, my child, eat. “You're too skinny.”

Not a word most people would use to describe her; small-chested in comparison to girls her size with the eddies for implants, sure. But skinny? With this ass and these thighs? But fine, alright, she'll play along, if only to stuff herself; who knows when the next time she'll get to eat full meals will be?

Through the red, white, and lime green lights, she spots Vik at the bar wearing a black button-down shirt, thumb and first two fingertips gingerly clutching a strawberry concha. It crumbles under his bite and falls to pieces onto his plate and on his lap. She can't tell where he's looking through his shades, but he freezes for a second, places his fist over his crumb-laden lips, and manages a wave. Why that simple gesture makes her face heat up, she isn't sure. It isn't sexy in the least, and calling it cute would be a stretch. So, why?

The nail polish. He doesn't usually wear tinted nail polish. Yes, she's stared at his hands before; with ripperdocs, it's good practice to check whether they're carrying other people's gunk under their nails. And Vik, despite the splatters of blood often staining his clothes by the end of the day, has immaculate nails. And long fingers. Long, thick, gorgeous...

A blast of trumpets jolts her out of her reverie. So busy staring at Vik, she didn't notice the mariachi band strolling in next to Jackie's grinning ass. In his place, she would be mortified at that much collective attention tacked onto her as a bunch of strangers sing to her, but Jack is soaking it all up like a plant does sunshine. He belongs there, she decides, being adored and admired. It's no wonder he's so hellbent on becoming a Night City legend. He's full of so much love, it's only right that he receive the same in turn.

Speaking of which...

“Where's Misty?” she asks when she gets a chance to pull him aside.

Jackie's beaming smile fades. He knocks back his signature drink, and V swears he's swallowing down a long, sad story. “We'll meet up with her in a bit.” His green eyes spark back to life. “At the afterparty.”

V had known Doña Lupe would be expecting something a little dressier than her usual mishmash garb, so Misty'd been more than happy to oblige despite their difference in size and shape. The hem on the shirt is snug and sits a little high on her waist, though fortunately the chest and neckline have more than enough slack. _He's got a thing for shoulders,_ Misty had whispered before handing the hanger over to V. 

And yet she didn't even have the decency to inquire why she wasn't at her own boyfriend's 30th. _Nice one, V._

Riot lives up to its namesake, by far the loudest club Jackie's dragged her to, but with the most danceable music so far. As much as she enjoys the Cartesian Dualists, Tainted Overlord, and Samurai, she misses that East Coast flavor and the melange of Afro-Caribbean cultures there. Pacifica has a few places with neo-dancehall, reggaetón, hip-hop, and grime, but getting in is a pain in the ass and her Haitian Creole is far too rusty for her to be able to schmooze her way in.

Jackie's hands clap above his head to the beat of the kick as they stroll into the nightclub, bathed in sheer violet, turquoise, green and gold lights. He wastes no time hauling ass to the dance floor as if it had dragged him in by some magnetic force, disappearing into a sea of writhing bodies.

“Ain't gonna join him?” she asks Misty.

There's a serene expression over her glossy black lips, eyes fixed on the towering figure in the center. She shakes her head. “Not really much of a dancer. But this is Jackie's night, so...who knows?”

“Just need a coup’la more tequilas and I am _there,”_ Pepe says. He slams the two tequila shots he's double-fisted, shakes off the inevitable burn and nerves like he's heading into battle, and charges in with Cynthia.

“What about you, Vik?” Misty asks, flicking V a look that has her wishing she were anywhere but here. The synth bass nearly swallows her voice in the rhythmic throbs, and God, V wishes it had.

His eyes don't leave the swirling whiskey in his glass, nor does the frown fade from his lips. “You kids go on ahead. I'll sit this one out.”

The word “kids” makes her chest clench. Right. She's a kid to him. Always will be.

To dwell on it now, however, won’t help anyone’s mood.

So she opts to join the other two fools on the floor, losing herself to the hypnotic bass. The nearest interested person does the trick: some pale, thick-armed rockerboy with snaking green dreads in a mohawk, his arm curling around her waist—a warm body to grind against, to support her while she winds her hips down to the floor and slowly, so slowly back up.

Is he watching?

Damn his glasses. All she sees is him raising his glass for another drink.

 _This is fucking stupid,_ she chides herself. It doesn't matter whether he's watching or not; she could greet him wearing nothing but eddies as pasties and he still wouldn't be interested. The sooner she accepts that, the less it'll hurt when she inevitably hears it from his lips, or when he shows up with someone else on his arm.

By the third song, she and Pepe drag themselves back to the table, the man wheezing from the exertion with his hair dripping sweat onto the table. A good workout, she admits, though she supposes Pepe's profession doesn't involve her level of daily activity. Jackie's still out there, jumping around to some Us Cracks song, though all she can see of him is his top knot and his massive hands swinging in the air.

“Jesus.” Vik slides over a glass of water toward Pepe. “Here. Ain't draggin' your ass to the car.”

He insists that he's fine, that he just needs some water and a couple of minutes because Cynthia wants to go home ASAP.

There's a hoarse shout and Jackie's waving over from the crowd. Whom it's meant for is a mystery, but she takes the moment to nudge Misty.

“Mean the world to him,” V says.

She takes a breath, white-knuckled hands clutching the table so tightly that V starts regretting ever suggesting it.

“Alright.” Misty leans in with a wicked smile. “Probably mean a lot to _him_ , too."

Her body can't take the temperature shifts today: one minute her face is on fire, and another it's icy nerves slushing at her stomach. And right now, it's somehow simultaneous and it's killing her, swinging from pathetic childish hope to the crushing pain of reality. So, once Pepe and Cynthia leave, she tries to focus on Misty and Jackie and just how fucking happy they look. It's unreal, inconceivable to her how two people could be so perfect for each other, how one could complement the other so well. She doesn't believe in happily ever afters, nor happy endings, for that matter; her fucked up family has more than ruined that for her. Yet watching Misty awkwardly sway in Jackie's arms, watching the way they're looking into each others' eyes makes her want to believe, if only for their sake.

“You alright, kid?”

It's infuriating how that voice of his flips the switch on her emotions, and a shitty day turns into a great one. She leans her cheek on her shoulder for support, studying Vik's puzzled expression for a moment. No, she can't imagine his arms around her, nor can she imagine sharing such a tender expression like Jackie's and Misty's. She can't imagine him letting her get close, nor letting her run her fingers through his hair or down his chest and waist, wanting her. She can't imagine him calling her beautiful, nor anything other than his nickname for everyone: _Kid._

And yet, she can't help try one more time.

“Hey, Vik? D'ya wanna—”

Jackie's booming laughter cuts her off, his body doubled over the poor support that is Misty's tiny frame.

“He needs to go home now,” Misty says, biting her lip.

Just like that, her second chance disappears. Shit. And yet part of her feels relief melt the tension out of her shoulders, the knot in her stomach. Can't reject her if she doesn't ask. It's a chickenshit, cowardly way out, she knows, but it works. It's Jackie's day, anyway; she can't be mad at him for that. Vik, however, reserves the right to be upset at the small pool of vomit now collected in the front seat of his car. But what tugs down at his features as he hauls Jackie out of the seat resembles exhaustion rather than anger. He's obviously done with tonight. Looks like bringing her Brennan Apollo was the right call after all. Shame about his car, though.

 _"Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey a mí,”_ Jackie howls, rather than sings.

 _“El rey David,”_ V corrects.

“Wha?”

 _"El rey David._ Those are the words.”

“Who the fuck is David? Fuck him, it's _my_ birthday,” he whines, then pauses, his green eyes unfocused. “Wait...you mean...I been singin' it wrong all these years?”

Oh yeah. It's lights out for him. “You're lucky I love you, _canto 'e pendejo.”_

“Why I always gotta be a piece of this, a piece of that? I'm a full-blown _pendejo.”_

“That you are,” she deadpans.

“So much for the gift,” Vik grumbles as he and V help Jackie up the stairs to the motel room Vik had rented out for him and Misty. Jackie topples onto the creaky king-sized bed like a log and Vik nearly begs Misty, in case he wakes up, to not to let him near the champagne for the rest of the night. She whispers a quick thank you as he and V leave.

Once outside, Vik stands at the passenger side of his car, staring. Just staring. His hands grip his hair, slide down his face, tugging enough to expose the pink behind his lower eyelids. Rough night, and not in the fun way. V assures him she'll help him clean up enough to make the ride back tolerable.

“Nah. I'm used to working with worse,” he says, pulling some latex gloves out of the compartment. “Don't get your clothes dirty.”

“And this ain't much worse than cleaning out the latrines at camp. Now quit your bitchin' and hand me a pair of those.”

As he predicted, it's messy and ruins a perfectly good (and, tragically, brand new) pair of jeans and his beautiful blue suede shoes, but at least it gets a lot of it out. And with some paper towels from the gas station, it doesn't look half bad. Still terrible, but better than the soupy mess before.

By the time they're done, it's already past 3 in the morning and they're both tuckered out and taking a break by the stairs, if only to air the stench of boozed-down tamales out of their clothes. V's resting back on her elbows staring at the night sky, fogged-up with artificial light. If she strains her sight hard enough, she can trace out Venus, but that's about it. City living has its trade-offs and she supposes missing meteor showers or the expanse of a starry sea are among those. So she shifts her attention back to Vik, who's next to her enjoying his cigarette. She never got a good look at his sleeve before: a collage of faces set over an intricate background with a palmette motif at the wrist, the word “pain” in all caps on the back of his arm, an attractive ring girl holding up a “Round 1” sign, and on his inner arm, the portrait of a beautiful redheaded woman.

But she can't bear asking him about it, about who she is.

His thick eyebrows rise behind his glasses and he angles his head down, she supposes to follow her line of sight, but it lets her get a glimpse of his eyes: clear bluish-green with a ring of amber around the pupil. Like the petals of a sunflower in a clear, late-summer sky. Her stomach sinks, heat returning to her cheeks. She's seen desert sunrises over jagged sandstone cliffs and sunsets tinged dusty pink in the lingering dust of a storm, verdant fields of gold-tipped synth-corn, shocking blue waters tucked between shale ravines. But at this moment, in the harsh halogen lighting of this motel parking lot, V can dare say his eyes are the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

He tilts his head in that usual way of his. He's caught her. The silence stretches the tension out taut.

_Say something. Anything._

“So, you were with Trauma Team?”

He gives her a puzzled look. Reasonable, seeing as she'd just pulled that out of thin air.

“You got that pouch with all your tools."

“Ah. Yeah.” He chuckles, but there's something heavy in his voice that sings of regret. “Ain't last too long there, though.”

“What, ya deck some gonk in the face?”

He laughs. “Nah, it was, uh...” He rubs the back of his neck. “Uninsured patient. Was my turn piloting. Got the call for him first and a platinum member about a second later. You know how it is. Anyway, I said, 'fuck it,' went to the uninsured guy first. Turns out he'd already flatlined when we got there. Platinum member sued. Said we took longer than expected. I got the shaft.”

Has he always been this much of a bleeding heart?

This is it. She's sure of it now:

She's absolutely, unequivocally in love with this man.

It's like diving into ice water, a shock. And after being so stuck in suffocating, stagnant loneliness, she can't tell if it's a welcome change or not. She knows fuck all what to do with this information and it scares the living shit out of her. That knot is back in her throat, in the pit of her gut, along with that ache at her fingers urging her to touch him, even if it's just his arm, his hand, his shoulder. As long as it's Vik.

“Went back to my old job, cutting on boxers at the gym. Lotsa broken bones, eyes swollen shut, broken cyberware. Been goin' there since I was about 15. Went out on my own after the...” The words die on his tongue. Best not to keep prying.

“Regret it?”

“Hell no.” He takes a deep breath of smoggy night air and leans back with her. “Ripperdoc suits me a helluva lot better, don'tcha think?”

“Mhm.”

A comfortable quiet settles between them, with only the whoosh of passing cars in the background, and she's content like this, existing together in this liminal space, even if this is all she'll ever get. He turns to her, lips parted to speak, but he pauses instead. Those eyes she'd been fawning over earlier are now tracing over her collarbone, the lines of her shoulder. She makes a mental note to thank Misty. They're on her neck now, then on her lips, and God, she hopes he'll do it because she sure as hell has run out of courage tonight.

Instead, she breaks the silence and asks, “Want a ride back? Can bring the shampooer in the morning, get the rest of the funk out.”

Vik straightens up as if he'd just been caught dozing off. “Uh, no. No. Thanks, though. Can't leave her out here.”

Of course, he wouldn't. What made her think otherwise? Panic, probably. And the desire to have him wrapped around her for a few minutes during the ride.

“Runnin' great, did I tell ya that?” he asks as he stands. “Did real good. How much I owe ya?”

She joins him and heads toward her bike. “Nothin'.” She nudges him with her elbow. “I love ya, Vik. It was a gift.”

The pavement has his attention and he nods, arms crossed over his chest. “Thanks, V.”

She shrugs it off, attempting to hide the weight of her disappointment in the depths of her pockets. The urge to do something, to ask him out, to kiss him, to ask if he wants to stay the night here with her instead is making her head spin. But once she asks, there's no going back, is there?

A quick press of her cheek against his in a chaste air kiss makes his shoulder grow stiff under her hand. She must have crossed the line, whatever the line even is, and the very idea of it turns her stomach, makes her legs feel heavy and weak.

The warmth dawning on his smile releases the captive breath in her lungs, however, and returns the feeling in her legs and knees.

“G'night, V.”

She presses the goofy grin back from her lips, pretends her neck and face aren't aflame before spinning awkwardly on her heel toward her Brennan Apollo.

“G'night, Vik.”

When she gets home to wash off the stench, something crackles in her jeans pocket. Contact info.

_'HMU if u ever feel like finishing what we started :P_

_-_ _D'_

Must be that guy from the club.

V snorts.

What a gonk.

  
  


—

  
  


He likes to think he takes moderate care of his appearance. So the shape of his ears and nose have gotten a little distorted over the punches he's soaked up, and his textured skin and thinning crown are a testament to his economic status, but he makes the most of what he has. And what he has, he's convinced, is pretty damn good.

A tiny knock and Misty parades in with a shirt in one hand and some small-stringed bag in the other. There's a strange wet sheet of paper glued to her face and her hair is in a hundred of those weird pins he assumes helps it stay so...out there. Likely primping for the afterparty.

Who's going to tell Lupe to let this go, that the way she regards Misty makes things hell for everyone else? Last time Vik tried, she dressed him down in front of Padre and half of Heywood. The woman is set in her ways.

“So, I saw this one at the thrift store,” she explains as she holds up the shirt. Short sleeves, button-down, black. He isn't so sure about the satiny hairline stripes down the shoulders—aside from his tattoos, he isn't a patterns type of guy. “Thought it would look preem on you, aaand—” she holds it up to him with a hint of pride embedded in her expression“—I'm glad to see I was right.”

It's the right fit, not too tight nor loose around the neck, no bulging between straining buttons around his chest. If anything, the sleeves are a little snug around the upper arms, but that’s nothing new.

“Mm-hm.” She grins. “She is going to love it.”

“She?”

Her reflection tilts her head down, looks at him with that all-knowing stare whenever she sees right through him, but doesn't explain any further. Instead, she hands him the little bag from earlier. Nail polish. Black.

“Trust me. It's a special occasion.”

Since when does he wear anything other than clear or that metallic-pearl color?

“And your aftershave. A little extra. For Mama Welles.”

“What, am I seducing Lupe?” Nothing against Guadalupe, but she's not his type for several reasons—one being she's Jackie's mother; a close second being he wouldn't be able to stand the constant guilt-tripping. They say the traits you hate in others are traits you yourself struggle with. His tongue is starting to get bruised and numb from holding back, however.

Misty snorts. “Sure. And so are Pepe and Gustavo and Padre and...”

“I got it, kid. I got it.” Little unspoken expectations, cultural things taken as signs of respect. He and Misty have been around the Welles long enough to understand that by now. A shame Lupe can't get over her obsession with Camila. If anyone is daughter-in-law material, in his opinion, it's Misty. Hell, if Jackie were his kid, there is no one he'd trust him with more. And while Camila was, _is,_ drop-dead gorgeous and fits in well with Jackie's past and current lifestyle, she would have gotten him killed months ago. Vik will never say that to his face, but hearing Jack had broken things off with the Valentinos and the ganger had lifted a boulder off his shoulders.

  
  


**[ Me | 2:44 pm ]**

_[image]_

This is stupid. What is he supposed to do while the polish dries? With the clear kind, he doesn't have to worry about it looking streaky, but he swears if he even looks at this color wrong, it'll slide off his nails.

**[ Mercedes | 2: 47 pm ]**

_Black? Seriously?_

  
  


**[ Me | 2: 47 pm ]**

_Bad?_

  
  


**[ Mercedes | 2:48 pm ]**

_No_

_Just surprising_

  
  


At El Coyote, Lupe greets him with her usual kiss on the cheek. But this time, she pats his face.

“ _Ay, pero qué guapo te miras hoy, mijo,”_ she coos. Handsome. “You have someone special you want to impress, ah?”

He pulls away from her as politely as he can. “Nah. Thought I should dress for the occasion.”

Martha and Gustavo are off in the corner they've carved for themselves: Night City's own Romeo and Juliet. Cynthia's peering into her little portable mirror, fixing whatever imaginary thing is wrong with her appearance, and Pepe's busy turning on the chafing fuel canisters under the trays of mouth-watering food. And if Pepe cooked it, it's guaranteed to taste even better than it smells.

Multicolored bursts of scattered light catch his attention as someone walks through the door. V's in some sparkly blouse that surrounds her in an ethereal, soft-focus halo; it slouches over one well-toned shoulder, sits high above her small waist. He's so used to seeing her in a tank top with pants or basketball shorts far too large for her frame, so when she comes in wearing a pair of tight jeans that fit her like a syn-leather driving glove, he nearly spits out his drink. Plump, soft. He bets that unlike most of her body, the flesh there would give in easily to touch. Thankfully, his glasses are tinted, so few should have caught on to him visually tracing the curves of V's ass like an old pervert, leaving him enough time to unstick himself from the mental mire of guilt and refocus on the strawberry _concha_ he's eating and the remaining half of his whiskey with some goddamn dignity.

She waves at him.

The sweet bread crumbles to his lap mid-bite. He can only wave back with the two fingers not involved in preventing him from eating like a toddler.

With any luck, she hasn’t caught him staring.

She's across the room now, greeting people with a cheek kiss: Jackie first, then Lupe, Cynthia, and Pepe. Tends to do that with Misty too, he's noticed. Never with him, though, which makes sense, he guesses. She's spent more time with them; lived with Jackie and Lupe for a while, helped Pepe busing tables at El Coyote for a few months, and Misty... How could anyone not love Misty?

Maybe she's caught him leering at her and feels uncomfortable. Or maybe she feels she needs to put a bigger barrier between ripperdoc and patient—which again, makes sense, and perhaps for the sake of professionalism, he should too.

He should have known playing chauffeur for Jackie and Misty would mean having them all snuggled up, whispering and giggling in the back seat of his car. He convinces himself that it's just for tonight, that he has to put up with the discomfort for a few minutes until they get to Riot, and then a few minutes to the motel he's booked for the two.

Thirty years ago he would have been psyched to walk into the hustle and bustle of a club, buy a couple of rounds for his friends, let some hot potential hookup (or two) grind against the front of his pants to the beat of the bass. He'd take them outside and tear their clothes off in an alley or in back of his cherry 640 TS. Nowadays, dance clubs are nothing but migraine fodder and a reminder that he isn't what he used to be. His hips feel tighter than a bowstring, and while he's still light on his feet, he can't achieve the same lines as Jackie and Pepe when they're cutting a rug. Not without aching in the morning, anyway.

At the very least, he has V and Misty to keep him company.

“Look at him,” Misty says. “He looks so happy.”

V prods her to dance, but she hesitates behind curled fingers and claims she doesn't dance, that she's happy to watch even though, on slow mornings, he often sees her bopping along to the 80s new wave record she'd once borrowed from him and never returned. She looks good, although he supposes that, given his lack of talent in this area, his opinion is worth squat.

He flinches at the nudge of her elbow, blanches at the suggestive look curling her dark-painted lips. “What about you, Vik?” she asks, and he doesn't miss the way her gaze flicks between him and V, who's suddenly staring into the bottom of her drink as if she'd rather be anywhere but here.

He dismisses it. He's too old for this shit; if anything, he's a chaperon to drive them around when they're too skezzed out and horny to do so themselves.

The flash of strobe lights cast a shadow over V's frown, coloring it with something his foolish heart hopes is disappointment.

No. That’s not it. Christ, why would he ever want V to be disappointed? See, this is why. This is why he doesn't do this type of thing anymore. It's needlessly complicated and messy and, in the end, everyone leaves with nothing but regret.

“You gonk. She obviously wants to dance with you,” Misty hisses. V is no longer next to her. “That was your shot.”

“Who, V?” He snorts, shakes off her comment and the threat of a migraine blooming at the edges of his vision.

_Do it for Jackie. Fight through it._

Her line of sight cuts a path through the crowd to the sight of V grinding her ass against some chrome-head with a bad haircut— _wait, is that Dino Dinovic from the 'Bandits?_ Rephrase, a chrome-armed _celebrity_ with pool tubes for hair. She bites her lip, offers him coy glances over her shoulder as he runs his hands over her hips, her taut abdomen.

Vik swallows, burrows his gaze into the sticky, graffitied vinyl of the table. He isn't going to find the key to why in the hell his collar feels rough and hot and tight, nor why he wants to squeeze the glass in his hand until it shatters, and definitely not why he feels like he shouldn't be watching this. V's a grown woman; she makes her choices, albeit as haphazardly as Jackie does, and he respects that. She's not his child, and she's not his input. But, Dino Dinovic? Really? The man is a slimy leech living off the hard work of poor, wet-behind-the-ears solos who more often than not wind up in body bags, or maimed and sitting in his chair wondering why they can't afford a cyberware prosthetic. He realizes he's no saint himself, but the guy is known for blackmail; people like that can't be trusted and it kills him that she can't—

He inhales the way Misty had taught him: in for 4, hold for 7, out for 8. While it does little to remove the sour feeling in his stomach, his mind clears enough to acknowledge that she's just dancing with some rando, and even if she realizes who he is, it's none of his business whether she decides to go home with him or not. Nothing good has come by being a nag, anyway.

Pepe and V swing back by the table. Pepe's out of breath, his white dress shirt sticking to his body in sheer, concave puddles. In between gulps of water, he mutters something about Cynthia needing to go home and disappears with her not long after.

A slower tempo flourishes over the club, lights dimming. It's one of those lazrpop ballads he can't quite comprehend, rife with electronic warbling reminiscent of a cheesy raypunk serial. Whatever the hype is, it's got Jackie's major league arms waving from the ocean of people as if he's drowning and calling for help.

V leans over, whispers something in Misty's ear.

Pain is bleeding behind his eyeballs, drilling underneath the top of his skull and aiming toward his forehead. Fuck.

“Probably mean a lot to _him_ too,” he catches her saying before she leaves him with V.

Whiskey was a bad choice in hindsight. Sure, he could pop a stim whenever he wants, abate the headache just enough to make it through the night, and take a self-approved sick day tomorrow, but then Misty will probably fuss over him, use that puppy-dog-eyed look to try to convince him to let her come over in the morning with miso soup and crystals and more lucky cat statues and noisy cat toys for Floyd to leave on the floor for him to step on in the middle of the night.

V hasn't moved since Misty left. Her chin rests on the heel of her hand, elbow propped up on the table. He can't quite label the emotion that paints her countenance, not through the kaleidoscope reflections twirling across the room, over her face.

Jackie and Misty are slow-dancing like two high school sweethearts. They may as well be; even Lupe has caught on to the stolen glances, how Jackie leans in extra close whenever she shows him her latest poetry, and Misty, ever the withdrawn one, giggles whenever Jack comes around. All it took were twelve years and several nights spent snot-nosed and sniveling on Vik's couch asking for “girl advice”, before he could figure it out on his own.

V sighs for the sixth time.

“You alright, kid?”

She turns toward him. Her cheek presses against her shoulder, her fucking shoulder.

_Goddammit, Misty._

A shard of mirrored light dances across her lips, over the freckles over her cheeks and nose. He hadn't realized through all the noise and formalities, but she's got some sort of dark pink stain on her lips. Her highball glass sports a matching print, evidence of her presence.

What it's doing to him should be considered a crime.

Her pretty little mouth moves in words he can't hear over the new song and Jackie's boisterous laughter.

Vik should have expected this, and yet here he is, gobsmacked at how utterly gonk-brained Jackie can be.

So much for the birthday sex.

At Misty's request, he drives them over to the motel, keenly aware of how Jackie is hunched over, clutched onto the dashboard.

It's coming. He knows it and he can't keep his voice steady. “Kid, you gotta hold it.”

“I can't... _Me voy a morir...”_

“You're not gonna die, Jack. Just got this reupholstered, so hold it in. We're almost—”

“ _Oh, God!”_

“AW, JESUS!”

It's ruined.

Vik flattens his mouth into a line as tight as the grip on his steering wheel. He remains silent for the rest of the trip because the moment he opens his mouth he's going to rip into him because he told him, he _fucking told him_ not to overdo it. Two years, _two years_ he'd been saving up to get this baby looking brand-spankin' new, and now it's covered in undigested tamal puree and booze.

When they arrive, he and V—who wisely opted to drive her olive green Apollo instead—hook one of Jackie's arms over their respective shoulders to drag him toward the stairs. The gonk sings _Las Mañanitas,_ but Vik isn't too sure those are the lyrics.

He curses the fact that the room is on the second floor.

“So much for the gift.” Shit, that wasn't supposed to be out loud.

“Wait...Wait a...” There he goes again.

V lets him go, leans over, and smoothes back the loosened hairs falling from his topknot onto his ears, then pats his back.

And then it all makes sense: that look she gave the two of them while they'd been off dancing together. She has feelings for Jackie (understandable, given the amount of time they spend together on gigs) and she's holding back out of respect to his input.

“Oh, Jackie,” Misty sighs. “Let's get you inside.”

Once he's on the bed and on his stomach, Misty apologizes repeatedly as they leave. She isn't responsible for his behavior; he's a grown man. Sometimes. Times like this, Vik really has to wonder.

“Keep that champagne away from him?” he requests. “Save it for later. The other one should be fine...”

Misty nods, taking the sparkling cider from the ice bucket as if he’d gifted her something from Jinguji. “Thank you, Vik. You're the best.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He wants to ruffle at her hair but decides against it considering the amount of work she's put in it. “G'night, kid. Tell him goodbye for me when he wakes up.”

There's puke on his seats, puke on the dust mats, splattered across the dashboard, seeping into his socks through the dark stains on the blue textile. Come to think of it, it's fair retribution for ruining Will's 740 that night they won over a thousand eddies playing pool, or that pool table at the bar the time he'd gambled with Fred and wound up with a black eye and a fractured zygomatic. Youth is truly wasted on the young.

V offers to help him clean up, but he turns her down. Not that it works, since they wind up emptying the gas station of paper towels and wiping the car down anyway.

Three dark stains on the tip of his shoe catch his eye.

Fuck. Those were new.

V glances down at his shoes, then at herself. She's got some of it on the side of her knee. What a shame. Those jeans fit her so well. He wants to ask if they're new but catches himself in time to acknowledge it would have been a monumentally stupid thing to tell her he's been staring at her ass. He has been, to be fair. But she doesn't need to know that, especially when she has someone else on her mind.

The two of them sit on the stairs and the icy dampness oozes through the fabric of his slacks. It does nothing for the zap running up and down his sciatic nerve, but it distracts him enough from the throb spreading around his temples. He should go home, take a stim, wash the stench off and crawl into a dark room until it passes.

That prickling sensation of being watched prompts him to catch V staring at him. At his arms, specifically. Probably at his tattoos, seeing as she seems to be quite the enthusiast. He half expects her to ask why he has all these portraits all over his arm. Some are trophies from past matches; others, tributes to the fallen, and one, the one on his inner arm, serves as a constant reminder to never lose sight of what's most important.

He could have been at home, with people who love him waiting for him. Instead, he's left with the remnants of an old injury and the din of a refrigerator humming through an empty apartment he only sees once or twice a week at night.

“So you were with Trauma Team?”

He cants his head. What? He must have missed something.

She points out he normally wears his old tool pouch.

“Ah. Yeah. Ain't last too long there, though.”

When she asks, he tells her about the corpo platinum card member who got him fired because fuck if he believed eddies should get a say in who lives and who dies. He'd hesitated, though, pondered the possibility of losing his job, and it was that hesitation that flatlined that uninsured patient. A father of three struggling to put chow on the table. The faces on those kids when he had to pronounce their provider dead still wake him up at night.

He clears his throat. “Went back to my old job, cutting on boxers at the gym. Lotsa broken bones, eyes swollen shut, broken cyberware. Been goin' there since I was about 15. Went out on my own after the...” The championship. Second place, a spray-painted plastic trophy, and brain damage.

“Regret it?”

“Hell no.” That's only partially true. While he would try and save the uninsured patient first in a heartbeat, the rest of his life had crumbled around him. He should have joined Trauma Team sooner, worked his way up so he could have changed things; should have paid more attention to Rachel, been a bigger part of Mercedes' life instead of chasing a name in a city that couldn't give a rat's ass about him. “Life as a ripperdoc suits me better.”

She hums but doesn't say anything, and part of him is grateful. He'd rather not rehash the past. Pity is something he cannot abide.

Her eyes are trained on him with the look she gets whenever she's taking something apart to fix it. The little crease between her eyebrows, the turn in her full, plump pout. The pink color has feathered away from her lips, likely still hugging the rim of that lucky glass back at the bar. He's gotta look away before he says something stupid. He wants to blame the whiskey for the way his head is swimming and the tunnel vision pointing him toward a friend who doesn’t see him that way. He’s made rebounds, been a rebound, and he hasn’t minded in the past but the inevitable fallout of this hypothetical scenario is far too much for him to act on it. Her throat bobs, and he follows it down the exotic red flower on her neck, down to her clavicle, tracing out the triangles and dots just under her collarbones, the v8 engine firing order over her heart: 1-5-3-7-4-8-2-6. Stick and poke. He’s never had it done, but he thinks he can see the appeal now. The irregular lines add to its charm, speak of the time and care the artist took. 

Her tongue swipes across her lips.

He is a weak man.

“Want a ride back? Can bring the shampooer in the morning, get the rest of the funk out.”

She may as well have splashed her drink in his face.

Vik sits up, sniffs like it’ll help him shake off the embarrassment. “Uh, no. No. Thanks, though. Can't leave her out here.”

V nods, drops her gaze back down to her folded hands.

Time to delta before his head misinterprets that. “Runnin' great, did I tell ya that? Did real good. How much I owe ya?”

She hangs her head down in frustration. “Nothin’,” she insists, jabbing his side with her elbow. “I love ya, Vik. It was a gift.”

It’s strange to be on the other side. Caring for others is something that comes naturally to him, more so now, so being on the receiving end is strange. First Misty and now V. It’s something he can’t describe, but it spreads something warm and tingly under his sternum. Not sure if it’s a good thing. He crosses his arms if only to contain it.

“Thanks, V.”

She beams, shoulders high against the sides of her head in a static shrug he’s afraid to deem coy. Until she breaches the distance, brings the fresh, woodsy fragrance of her hair gel close as she presses a kiss against his cheek. It’s platonic, familial, but the flutter it causes in his pulse is undeniable. She pulls back just as quickly as she approached, bottom lip pinched beneath her teeth, and spins on her heel toward her Apollo.

“G’night, Vik.”

He stops his hand mid-way to the phantom outline of her lips left behind on his cheek. It means nothing.

“G’night, V.”

Absolutely nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V ignores her intuition after a gig gone wrong and everything falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a brief mention of sexual assault, gore, and heavy angst.

Boot soles stick and slap over filthy concrete floors. The decaying ghost of All Food's past operations clings to the perspiring walls with the stench of maggot-infested rot on pork and human meat. Once, this plant was a bustling source of steady work, keeping (what is somehow legally described as) food in citizens' stomachs, and roofs over their heads. Now it's a dark, nauseating 'dorph den full of 'borged out cultists with spindly red little eyes peeking out from the dark like robotic insects, full of her favorite kind of explosives (cameras won't allow her to klep one fast enough, though), and laden with cobwebbed machinery sticky with dried up meat juice.

Earlier she practically told Militech's Meredith Stout to go fuck herself when V stood her up beneath that bridge. Short on cash as always, but V knows better than to trust a corpo, particularly the desperate ones. Meredith's sculpted ass is on the line here and people like her will always use anyone else to soak up the bullets. Too many Wyvern drones floating about. And when she showed up in that armored truck with at least two soldiers and what seemed like a tied-up third person in the backseat V had decided the best option was to delta the fuck out of there. Nomad gigs have taught her it is much better to invest out of pocket than to give corpo-rats an inch, anyway _._ Less messy, easier to pinpoint static when things go south, no one tailing your ass: overall cleaner, simpler, more effective in the long run.

The elevator creaks with each of Jackie's pacing steps.

Elevators.

Fucking buildings and their fucking deathtrap elevators.

Coulda taken the stairs, but _no._

And his giant 6”4 ass keeps making it shake and squeal.

Maelstrom doesn't seem the type to maintain shit, from the amount of trash lining the floors and walkways, so depending on the last time the previous owners serviced this shit, the suspension rope on this clunker could snap and they'd fall and fall and fall and be trapped under rubble for weeks and—

“Just keep chilled, V,” he says with a reedy breath.

“I _am_ fucking chilled. Done this hundreds of times before and for fuck's sake, will you stop _pacing?”_

“Mm. Chilled people don't snap like that, _mamita.”_

 _"Véte p'al carajo._ Been doin' shit like this while you were still sneakin' shots of Broseph's behind your mom's back.”

But he's right. She's not okay. She's been working deals between corpos and gangs since she'd gone on her first drive at the age of 16. She knows the deal: don't offer more deets than necessary, act like you have more options than available, wear a mask of harmless affability when heavily armed, and push your bluffs to the limit when defenseless. Never show your hand.

And yet, all this has gone out the window since getting out of Dexter's car.

Fucker goes AWOL for two years. One of the first gigs he arranges since his return and he wouldn't go through T-Bug nor Jackie despite having a rapport with them, and decides he wants to work with some nobody tarmac rat? Even worse, he had the astounding stupidity to pay a bunch of psychopathic, borderline-cyberpsychotic gangers upfront in the middle of an internal power struggle. The fuck kind of fixer doesn't do thorough recon first?

And then there's Vik's reaction to all this: a congratulatory warning.

_Keep your guard up._

The way his face hardened when she uttered Dexter DeShawn's name. What does he know? What is he not telling her?

Still, Jackie is so gung-ho on this like this one's it, the gig to set them up for life. Though whether as well-off, private citizens, or as Afterlife legends with posthumous namesake drinks remains to be seen. V is banking on the former.

Seven laser-red eyes flash before her face and she realizes with a jump that she's too close to the elevator door. Dum Dum, his unfortunate nick, is barely taller than V is, her Kiroshis reading him at 5’9 and, if not for the heavy chrome threaded under pale, mangled skin, he'd surely weigh less if what remained of his 'ganic skull hinted at anything. It's the nose that weirds her out the most, though: as if it'd been sliced off, bridge stapled to his custom optics, the nostrils sealed away in two soldered grommets that make him look like one of those cave bats she'd seen in a Pre-Collapse biology class shard. Metal studs keep his cheeks stapled to the rest of his face, and studded spikes at his chin act as a sort of fucked-up goatee. Likes the two lip rings, though; she had one just like it on her bottom lip in her late teens, 'til it got caught in some other gonk's piercing and...well…

Yeah.

“Like what ya see?” His vocal cords have this spine-chilling, distorted, polyphonic quality, and he speaks in a blunted accent she can't quite pin down. Not too many of his kind back East.

V lets her chrome teeth peek through in equal parts smile and snarl. “Came to check out the merch', ain't I?”

Jackie fails to disguise a repulsed groan.

With a waggle of his pistol Dum Dum points at the couch, an electronic guffaw hacking out of his throat. “Gonna get along, me 'n you. Couch. Park it.”

The aforementioned couches were probably once part of a 20th century-style diner booth, violently clawed apart, and riddled with mysterious stains both ancient and new. Not the most ideal place to “park” her ass although she supposes she's sat on worse things. Jackie, though, isn't having it and goes toe to toe with Dum Dum; glints of chrome and wires creep in closer. His crew's ready to pounce and the tension is about to snap when that pistol presses under Jackie's jaw.

That's her choom, her boy right there first and foremost and she will fucking kill anyone even toying with the idea of hurting him.

The lack of RAM in her OS, however, makes her reconsider her course of action. Not enough EMP grenades either. As tempting as it is to short-circ' and flatline the lot of them and then leave with the bot, eddies, and some extra gear in hand, odds are nowhere near in their favor right now.

“Jackie, _ya,”_ she says, voice heavy with exasperation. _“Siéntate.”_

The acid green sneer hits her from his raised collar like spit, but he begrudgingly relents and sinks down on the creaky red couch. He'd said it before: this is Maelstrom's turf. Not the time or place to play hard and assert dominance. Keep chill, right? He'll forgive her later once this is over.

Pistol goes into the back of Dum Dum's leather pants, or maybe some 'borg compartment in his meat—whatever, it's gone and she doesn't wanna think about it. His posture slackens some and the imitation of human warmth stretches at his studded features as he holds out an inhaler. Red dots swirl over her. He's scanning her. For what? Fear? Weapons?

“Take a hit.”

Her scan doesn't tell her much about the inhaler's contents, so she relies on the smidgen of Maelstrom info she's learned while working with Regina Jones: could be anything from Blue Glass, 'dorphs, or the infamous Black Lace. While she's no stranger to treating herself every now and then, doing so on the job has to be the most gonk mistake people commit during transactions.

V hums, pretending to consider the offer although he's probably measured out her intentions and microexpressions with all those lenses of his.

“Take ya up on that some other time, hm?” She gestures at Jackie with her head. “Gotta drive this one back home.” A lie. They arrived separately and he has his Arch Nazaré.

“Whatever ya say, straight-edged princess,” Dum Dum snorts, then puffs at it with an obscene moan.

Heard it was some good shit, but damn.

“So, biz,” she announces with a slap on her knees. “Royce. Need to talk to him 'bout the Flathead.”

His nose can barely move with all those rings and staples and studs, but she guesses it's scrunching up. “Ain't available. Ya talk to me.”

Not good. Dum Dum could have staged a coup, could have done Royce like they did Brick. Sudden changes in leadership weaken groups. Saw it happen with the Bakkers. Would be no different with Maelstrom. In which case, there's no telling how this will go down; Dex'd given her the specs on the boss, not this fucker of a metal toaster chicken.

“Well?”

V takes a sip of air, leaning back on the couch in hopes of portraying an air of aloof confidence and not the bladder-quivering fear spreading through the pit of her stomach.

“Just thinkin': See, had an appointment, me and Royce. A deal. Thought I was goin' the extra mile, bringin' the cold, hard eddies, no Militech. Professional. Royce standin' me up like this don't bode well for biz, kn'a'mean?”

“V,” Jackie strains out.

Too late to back out now. This whole situation was fucked from the start. But if she can tilt and chip away at the falling structure that is Maelstrom to her future advantage, then it's worth a couple of cuts, bruises, and bullet holes.

“Mean, don't get me wrong: I'm'a give you the scratch,” she continues, hands raised, “but it ain't buildin' too much trust here. Unprof—”

Chrome and stretched meat waft the scent of motor oil, metal, and unwashed flesh right into her nostrils. Dum Dum's close enough to bite her entire face off. If he can even open his mouth that wide. V sits up taut at the icy muzzle of his pistol against her temple.

“Well, this ain't no corpo sit-down, is it? Suggest ya tread carefully.”

_Stay chill. Don't let 'em see ya sweat._

She lets out a breath, conjuring up another grin. “Fair enough.” A nod to her right. “Got the bot? Need to see it first.”

At the wave of a cybernetic hand, another 'borg goon brings a watertight box marked with a sun-bleached Militech logo and sets it on the crate makeshift table in front of her, right next to where Dum Dum is perched. He gleefully gives her a demo, slotting the shard into his port to make it crawl around over the couch, the floors, even the goddamn crumbling walls. Impressive wouldn't even begin to describe it. Too bad it's Dexter's. Would've made an interesting little toy to tinker with.

“Raven?” she asks regarding the controlling unit. Doesn't sound quite right. “Really? Not a Militech controller.”

Dum Dum hacks another raspy cackle. “'Course not. Militech controllers outlink to Militech systems. You wouldn't want them to track their stolen tech back to your hands.” Raven's Maelstrom tech, their pride and joy. Improved neural sync and untraceable, he claims.

She won't deny that when he toys aloud with the idea to sell the tech, she feels a certain giddiness rise in her belly. So many things she could do with that tech. So many ways to exploit it, improve on it, outdo both Maelstrom and Militech at their own game. Makes her downright wet.

But she keeps a disciplined, listless face as if she could do better but hasn't the time for it.

“It'll have to do.”

Her aloof airs get Dum Dum chuckling. Whether he buys her bluff or not doesn't matter since he's placing the shard in with the box.

“Let's see your cred.”

“Nuh-uh. Brick got it. 'S all paid up.”

The banshee-like screech of a garage door slamming shut has the massive motherfucker named Royce barreling toward her. _Found the guy eating all of Dum Dum's rations._ How had she not seen him standing there, watching? Sloppy work.

Dum Dum bolts away from the table.

This is the second pistol she's had pointed at her head today—a good day by Night City standards.

“I don't see any fuckin' Brick around here, do you?” he bellows.

Fair enough.

V musters her sleaziest, greasiest grin. “Fuck Brick, then. Let's cut a new deal.”

For a few seconds, she thinks this potential cyberpsycho is bent on blowing her head off either way, until he scoffs. “Now that's good business sense. Alright. You want the Flathead? Better see some eddies.”

“A'ight, a'ight. I got it, I got it. Be chill.” Hands up, she wiggles her fingers. “Gonna reach for 'em in my jacket. We good?”

He knocks the side of the pistol against her head, not forcefully enough for her to black out, but hard enough that she sees little whites spots dancing. “Whaddya mean _reach?_ We're talkin' cred here?”

She blinks back the flashing lights. Can't think straight with floaters doing the cha-cha slide behind her eyelids. Fuckin' gangoons. No common sense.

“Say I transfer the eddies to your account. Who the fuck controls the banks?” A rhetorical question. Same folks who control everything, from the government to the polluted drinking water. “Mhm. And who do ya think is gonna be looking for large transfers?” She leans forward. “Look, I can wire 'em to ya if ya want. But the corpo-bitch in charge of that convoy's desperate. Had some random gonk hogtied in the back of her truck. Just figured...” She shrugs and sighs for dramatic effect. “You ain't want Militech at your doorstep.”

Silence is good. Means they're mulling it over. Connecting the dots.

If only she could explain this to the squirming, sweating Jackie right now.

Over Royce's shoulder, Dum Dum's bony head nods subtly and when his red optics focus in on her he smirks.

A successful castle technique on her part.

“Can reach for 'em yourself, if ya don't trust me,” she offers, hands still raised. “Left side pocket. Ten thou' in a bundle. Large bills only.”

Royce's scowl deepens for a moment; gonk is clearly not used to being told what to do, not even through suggestion. Better for her, she thinks. Means it won't take a sledgehammer to crumble the gang. Just a teeny, tiny wedge.

But when it changes from resentful rage to predatory hunger, her stomach falls through the floor.

“Have it your way, then, sweetheart.” His meat hands reach for the eddies in her canvas bomber jacket, but not before sliding over her breast, pressing and squeezing hard enough to hurt. Cold rage. The urge to rip off the meat he's tainted. Feels dirty. Wrong. She tries not to react, but her breath hitches. Anger, shock, pain...People like him get off on all sorts of emotions. And right now, her anger burns so brightly, it's threatening to pour out from her eyes in hot tears. She's been through much worse than being felt up; who hasn't? But for the most part, she's gotten her due. A knife in the offending hand, the satisfying crunch of a broken nose or teeth or appendage, the pop of a kneecap, or watching her “family” string someone to the back of a Galena to give them a good ol’ sand n’ polish down a hot desert road. But Bryce has cornered her again and there's nothing she can do about it here. And that, more than anything, is what pisses her off.

 _"Pinche cabrón,”_ Jackie growls, but she waves for him to stop.

She'll get Royce. She'll fucking get them all.

But not right now.

“Satisfied?” V asks, swallowing the fractured remnants of her pride, each one cutting like shards of glass.

His voice rolls in his throat like an engine. “Quite. Now get the fuck out of my factory.”

V says nothing as she closes up the case and goes to carry it. Jackie opts to lug it himself and she hasn't the clarity nor energy to argue about outside perception and putting up a tough front.

But Royce's pride won't let him stop goading, apparently. And that little flaw is what's going to get him killed once this Konpeki shit is over.

“And once ya get Dex's dick outta your mouth, tell him I said hello.”

Yeah, she's going to start by cutting out his tongue—chrome or meat. Either way, she'll make him swallow it.

Dum Dum takes them down the elevator for some reason; perhaps he suspects she'll fill the place with EMP grenades and, once again, she would have had she packed enough.

“So this Royce... He's an improvement from Brick, right?” It's more of an incredulous question than a statement. Jackie sighs at her; she's killing him, she knows.

A metal fist slams above her head and it's all motor oil and the tang of musky old sebum again. “The hell you care?”

“I'unno. For a sec I thought you were the boss. More...level-headed 'n shit? More the leader type. And your boys, they seem to like you better.”

No change in expression, though she has no experience with the range in visible emotion a 'borg could have. But she's done talking. Seed planted. All she has to do is wait.

“Got quite a mouth on ya for such a delicate little meat bag.”

V puckers her face into a pseudo-smug look. “Pleasure doing biz witcha, Dum Dum.”

It's gray when they get outside, quicksilver drops falling noisily to the ground, a nice reprieve from Night City's sweltering summer heat, though it'll get worse once the rain stops. She lets it fall over her face for a moment, if only to wash away the rotten stench and the sensation of Royce groping her, to clear the boiling anger at the base of her skull.

But it returns the moment Dexter pops up on the holo.

She reassures him that everything is in order in the fewest words as possible, and gets back to soaking in the rain.

“Gonna catch a cold like that,” Jackie chides as he yanks on the straps securing the case to his bike. “Though I'm startin' to think you like having Vik on your case.”

Before this deal went down, she would have denied it, punched him in the arm for being a fucking gonk, but not even her crush on Vik can fit through the overwhelming dread filling the confines of her mind at this moment, touching the corners of her vision and spine with icy fingers.

“Don't like this.”

“Wouldn't tease ya about it if ya didn't go all googly-eyed when you go see him. _'Oh, Doctow Vectow, wiw you pwease kiss my boo-boo?'”_

“I mean the deal with Dexter.” She leans against the door on her black Hellas, arms crossed. “Not enough intel here. And Royce ain't even seem to know we were coming.”

Jackie clicks his tongue and waves her off. “Aaaaa, he was fuckin' with our heads. Assertin' dominance and all that shit.”

“His second-in-command ain't look like he was expectin' us either.”

“Ain't you say ya dealt with gangs before? 'S all mind games, holmes.”

She shakes her head. The panic in Evelyn's blood leaking into her during that Konpeki BD; the unadulterated fear in her eyes as she begged to keep it between V and her. And then there's what Vik told her the day he'd installed her Kiroshi optics: _Keep your guard up._

“Jack, you ain't see her. Dex's client, she wanted to cut him out. Sounded desperate about it.” She doesn't realize she's gnawing off her hangnail until she tastes salt and copper. “Too many secrets, not enough intel. We're fuckin' flyin' into a fuckin' war zone blindfolded.”

He gives her shoulder a rough pat. “You worry too much. Dexter DeShawn is the best of the best. Wouldn't'a taken this on if he ain't know it was for sure. 'Sides, the eddies are just too good on this. Got a house picked out for _mamá,_ right in North Oak, and a place for me 'n Misty in Wellsprings.” He thumps the back of his hand against her chest. “And you can get yourself some new threads.”

She glances down at her usual outfit: tank top under the jacket _du jour,_ cargo pants, and manganese-toed punk fleets.

“What's wrong with what I got?”

Jackie coughs out a full-bellied laugh, but she never receives an answer. “Oh, and you can take Viky out to _Bleu_ for 'ganic oysters. 'S an aphrodisiac, y'know. Get 'im all in the mood to play doctor.”

V rolls her eyes. “And if he isn't into seafood?”

He claps and jitters on his heels. _“Aha!_ I knew it!”

“Yeah. Real perceptive,” she deadpans as she gets into her car. “See ya at the Afterlife.”

Before she can shut her door, he wedges his arm in. “But seriously, _chica._ Ask him out. He's a good guy. Good with his hands, according to legend.”

“Good _night,_ Jackie.”

“No, but seriously. Ask him. He likes _Pepper & Spice._ Hasn't been in a while. And maybe he'll have you for dessert.”

She slams the car door. Fuckin' gonk.

But she can't help the goofy smirk pulling at her mouth for the rest of the drive home.

  
  


—

_Keep your guard up_.

Vik's words play over and over during the lash of irritation Jackie's enthusiasm sparks while they're in the Delamain.

It echoes when Yorinobu makes a sudden appearance and the air between her, Jackie, and the server column grows stale and hot, and again when the corporate prodigal son snuffs the life out of his father. When he makes eye contact with her through the cracked smartglass screen.

It reverberates in that cramped booth full of nicotine, booze, and expensive cologne.

It screams at her when T-Bug shrieks in pain for the last time and now she and Jackie have to make do on their own.

And it plays again while she lays bleeding next to a moribund Jackie, trapped in a tight space with that fucking chip Dex and Evelyn wanted so badly. Vik's voice is there when she hauls Jackie into the Delamain cab and his breathing grows ragged and the edges of her vision are growing blurry with pain and panic because he's dying, Jackie is fucking dying and there's not a goddamn thing she can do to fix it. 

_Keep your guard up_. 

And still, she'd gotten swept up with the adrenaline rush, with Jackie's enthusiasm, let herself get sucked in by the undertow. One last gig and he'd become a legend, he said. She thought she'd rake in enough eddies to stop relying on others for once, be her own woman, prove _Mami_ and _Tío_ wrong, that she could make it on her own.

But all those dreams evaporate with Jackie's final breath as she watches the life fade away from his yawning pupils.

_Keep your guard up._

This wasn't worth it.

None of it was.

Not when the Delamain drives away with her best friend's corpse.

Not when she feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise just before Dex's bodyguard knocks her out.

_Keep your guard up._

Not when that bastard aims the icy muzzle of his gun at her head.

_Keep your guard up._

Not when life flickers in and out of her, scrolling in flashes like a broken rotoscope: the Arasaka stooge hovering over her; Vik's teeth bared in a silent scream; a crowd of cheering people; the hands of strange women slithering over a body that is hers and yet not; Misty sobbing into her knees on the steps; and pain, so much pain whenever she takes a breath; the heat of the bomb searing at her skin and she falls on wooden splinters and rubble; her hand slips and she falls, falls, falls and her ribs shatter on the pavement; the massive cyborg aiming at her just like Dex had.

Vik's there when she comes to, face gaunt and full of shadows that speak of sleepless nights. There's a crease above the bridge of his nose that won't go away and he keeps avoiding looking her in the eye and that's when she knows it's bad. He's never looked at her like this before and it drags a chill up the base of her spine. Like there's no hope. The construct in her head is killing her and will kill her. Weeks, he says. A few more weeks. Nausea bubbles in her throat and whether it's due to the stabbing headache or the prospect of dying at the age of 26, she's no longer sure.

She doesn't remember getting home. Doesn't remember how she got a knot on her forehead and cracks on her window pane. But what she can't forget is the brooding specter of an asshole roaming around her apartment, bitching about food and cigarettes and menstrual cramps and how she might as well pull the trigger on her pistol, all the while eating away at her brain and any hopes at finding a sliver of happiness in this hellhole of a city.

  
  


—

  
  


The digital clock marks 4:32 am when the holo starts blaring on Vik's nightstand. Fuckin' hell. He was having a dream about being back in the ring again, but with Mr. Whitey for some reason, and his sweet, clean speed wasn't working for him this time. That motherfucker.

He paws around in the dark for his glasses if only to decipher whether this was another call from Blaze and his Scav friends or Jackie drunk-dialing him again. Either way someone is getting hit in the gut.

When he picks up the phone, all he hears is a woman crying. It's the incoherent babbling in Spanish that identifies her as Guadalupe Welles. Not having a translator installed puts him at a disadvantage in these situations, but he can pick up enough that this is about Jackie and it's enough to make his heart pick up speed and hammer under his sternum.

“Lupe. _Por favor,”_ he traces the foreign words out carefully, _“Más despacio.”_

“Jaquito. He's... _Ay, virgen santísima...”_ The rest of the Spanish he can't quite pick up; it's either muffled or too advanced for his ability. “They kill..No. He is not breathing, Viktor! There is so much blood.”

He doesn't remember how he drove without swerving into a traffic pole with how hard he was stepping on the CHOOH pedal, but there were no thoughts left other than what the hell he's going to do with his dead friend on the ground while his mother keens and wails over him and how the fuck he's going to tell Misty.

Stiffness has already set in Jackie's joints; must have been a few hours since he passed, and far too late—despite his useless hope—to be able to revive him. All he can do is clean the dried blood off him, erase some of the gore for Lupe's final memory of her son. What does this make? The fifth friend he's had to bury in a decade? His throat burns and the inside of his nose burns with pinpricks, threatening tears he refuses to reveal. But at the sight of Lupe cradling Jackie's cold face in her hands and kissing his forehead, he steps away, steps out.

He's not a habitual smoker. Gave that shit up years ago, but he needs something, _anything_ to calm his nerves, and inhaling all of Lupe's tequila doesn't seem appropriate in these circumstances. No, he'll do that at home, once he tells...

Where's V?

Why wasn't she in the car with...?

His feet go leaden.

Unless she didn't...

No, she would. Kid like her is always slipping through Death's fingers.

Then again, Jackie...

A message chimes on his holo.

_V._

It's a miracle he doesn't drop his phone on the ground as he opens up the message.

**[ V | 5:45 am ]**

_[ I understand you are V's ripperdoc. We are both in need of medical assistance. V is severely wounded. We await you at your clinic. Please hurry._

_-Takemura Goro]_

No time to ask. Will ask when at the clinic. For now he's busy convincing an overwrought Lupe to let him take Jackie back to the clinic to get him properly cleaned up and on ice until Trauma can take him into the temporary morgue in a few days.

“I can't let him go. He is all I have left.” The break in her voice as she clings to Jackie's corpse makes something snap in his chest and makes something hot and unpleasant spread through him, burning at his eyes and through his nose. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, hoping to relieve the rising pressure. “Viktor, _por favor._ I need more time. _Un momentito, no más.”_

He clenches his jaw. No amount of crying is going to fix this, so why the hell bother in delaying what needs to be done? Worst part of it is how infectious it is, her sobs extruding something viscous and ugly and raw from the center of his chest.

“Got two more patients waiting at the clinic,” he grunts. “Call me later. Or have Pepe bring him when you're ready.”

The trip there is a blur, ultimately unimportant once he gets a look at the blood trails and spatters over the concrete floor. An older man clutching his side stands by the lifeless figure propped up against the car's tires. Triage tells him he should tend to the critical patient most likely to survive, but when the lines on the other identify her as V, the urge to get her on the table and save her above anything, anyone else shreds away at his rationality, at everything he's been taught. The man seems to have a similar idea, as he offers to pull her legs while Vik pulls at her torso and arms until he collapses under a puddle of his own blood. _P1._ V is P2 at best. P4 at worst, and most likely.

Can't lose three in one night.

He sets V down to assess the man's (Takemura, he says) wound severity and, after applying some coagulants, he races back to V.

Rivulets of blood from her nose and mouth have dried in brittle lines. One of her eyes is swollen shut, while the other's bruise suggests a shattered cheekbone. It's the clotted hole burnt into her forehead, though, that wraps his throat in a vise. Bullet hole. Low caliber from the size, but point-blank from the outline of a muzzle seared into her skin. Faint pulse.

CT scan shows her brain has been swelling around the bullet for a while, and that fucking talking piece of shit taxi has the fucking gall to say drilling through her skull to remove the bullet and relieve the swelling is risky. He knows what he's doing. He's done this a hundred fucking times. Half the patients die on the table, but they'd die without it either way.

And V...

Can't think of what would happen if...

First Jackie. Then V.

_No. Focus._

The drone of a flatline and the corners of his vision go blurry. Airhypo after airhypo until the beep of a heartbeat replaces the flat tone and V is gasping and screaming and clawing at the nearest surface. Black scleras are wide with the rush of adrenaline and panic.

 _“Fuck you!”_ she spits, voice crackling from overuse and an undertone not quite like her. _“Won't stop until you're all fucking dead!”_

Instead of settling back down, a fist connects to the side of his face, propelling his taped glasses across the room and spreading a sky full of flashing stars across his vision. But she's the one howling in pain, the one with an open skull, body mottled purple and full of bullet holes, a shattered clavicle, ribs in smithereens, right arm and left ankle broken in three places. It takes several doses before she's sedated enough for him to sew her head back up, to remove the bullets and buckshots from infected meat, get her blood count back up. And even then, she mumbles through it.

“Arasaka...”

Takemura sits up at the name, chair squealing at the change in posture.

“Tell your boss...” Half-asleep, bandaged and limp in his chair, somehow she conjures up the bile to utter the uncharacteristic, “He can choke...on my...” And then she surrenders to the dilaudid in her system.

Misty's late that morning, and who can blame her?

He can, apparently. And he hates himself for it.

The moment she arrives, puffy-eyed and barefaced, he refuses to say anything and focuses on pulling all the poison out of the cigarette in his mouth into his lungs, into his bloodstream. With any luck, it'll quell the zaps of panic lingering on the edges of his nerves, though he knows better; he'll have to deal with her reaction to Jackie's corpse in a cooler, and V's disturbing, near-comatose state while wrestling with the weakness attempting to bleed through him.

When her hand reaches just under the sore spot under his eye, he dodges it like a blow.

“Are you...?”

He flinches. “I'm _fine.”_ It comes out coarser than it should have, but what else is there? He's taken this on his shoulders, saved two out of three without shedding a fucking tear because that's what needed to be done. She should be saving her concern for those in the clinic. He's done this before. Lost plenty of friends and family, on and off his clinic chair. Yet another bitter fact which time instills into those dwelling in Night City. No one is exempt. No one.

“I...I need a minute,” she whispers.

Vik works the bitter discomfort down his throat, takes another drag from his cigarette, and nods. 

Nothing. His mind is blank but heavy as if stuck in a mid-autumn fog; there would be nothing else, even if he willed it. There has to be something wrong with him, that he can't feel what she's feeling, what Lupe is feeling, that he can't express it like everyone else. Rachel once told him the divorce should have been a wake-up call, that she hoped losing her would trigger some sort of response. It didn't. It was like it is now. Nothing. Only that prickly feeling of pins and needles following extended disuse of a limb. He exhales a gray, toxic cloud, watches it dissipate into the silver-blue light of the twilight sky.

Inside, he catches her in the middle of an agonized sob, leaning over Jackie's icy corpse. Petite hands caress his hard-set jaw as if her touch would work her healing magic and wake him up as if he'd simply passed out from a night-long bender and needed escorting to bed again. His name leaves her lips in a breath, followed by, “I told you, babe. I told you...”

She had.

And he'd warned them about Dexter DeShawn. Fucking Dexter “Skip Town” DeShawn. But once a patient is out of his chair, he has no control; he knows this. As if he had any control over those two hard-headed gonks in the first place. Stitch up stab wounds and bullet holes only for them to jump back in to become sponges for steel, lead, and alcohol. Now he's left with two patients and a corpse.

He's done for the day, he decides, canceling all his appointments and flipping off the 'Open' sign.

It's been twelve hours. All out of matches to watch and rewatch, all out of cigarettes, all out of whiskey and Spunky Monkey. As if he could sleep anyway. The burrito Misty gets him smells like disinfectant. Could be his hands and clothes, though. There's already wet cotton in his stomach, numbing it to match the rest of him.

Misty is busy circling the clinic, tending to Takemura, then cleaning off V's weeping wounds, and hiding in the back to weep quietly over Jackie's still form. And again. And again. That same pattern, the clack of her shoes over the polished cement tracing the same lines over and over until they're way too fucking loud.

“Jesus, would you fucking stay still for a minute?”

He can't ever recall Misty being angry, not when he's nagged her for being late, not the few times Jackie’d snapped at her and dismissed her advice as intrusive, not even when Lupe had repeatedly suggested she was a succubus _güera_ taking advantage of Jackie's idealistic whims to turn him against his mother, against Camila, against his culture. But her narrow, pink nostrils are flared, and she's giving him a pointed look sharper than any switchblade he's been threatened with.

“It's time you got used to being uncomfortable already, Viktor,” is all she says, before storming out of the clinic.

Four days pass before Takemura recovers well enough to leave. Thirteen days before V can stay awake longer than two minutes at a time, before the frequent seizures ease up, before the digital demon in her head retreats into her mind and the near-permanent scowl fades into her usual softer, thoughtful countenance. No more screaming—not out of rage, anyway. It's V. Playful, curious, regular V.

Until he breaks the news to her.

She's dying.

She is going to die.

And she begs him, begs him to save her, begs him as if he would ever hold back from granting her the ability to live as if he would ever deny her if he had the skill.

When her voice cracks, when the tears track down her jawline and onto her lap, he feels the dam break, feels the liquid sting rolling down his nostrils, brimming at his eyes, the knot behind his Adam's apple warping and suffocating him. He can't do this. He calls out for Misty, but his voice shatters and betrays him on his way out of the door.

He can't do this.

Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all knew it was coming, but that scene from the Delamain gets me every time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mishap at Jackie's funeral sends V into a self-destructive spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide attempt and a discussion of suicide.
> 
> Thanks again to my kickass betas Thorn and Sarna! <3

Being at Jackie’s funeral seems wrong, disrespectful even. He was a close friend—the best—but V had known him a year, tops. Everyone present has known Jackie for most of his life, or has some kind of special connection to him, while V is just an aimless whirlwind of misfortune who’d happened to cross his path on a gig. She can't bear to look Doña Lupe in the eye. Cuts even deeper when she wraps her frail little arms around her and calls her _hija mía,_ “daughter of mine,” instead of the casual _mija;_ she hates herself for wanting to weep on this grieving mother's shoulder for comfort, as if Doña Lupe doesn't have the crushing weight of her last remaining child's death to contend with, as if V isn't partly responsible for getting her son killed. Vik's sitting by the ofrenda altar, resting his elbows on his thighs, curled in on himself, leg bouncing restlessly. By the sharp smell peeking through his aftershave and from the all-too-bright greeting he chirps at her, he's been pre-gaming, if such a word can even be used for funerals. But in the soft, warm glow of candlelight and fire, the tip of his crooked nose is pink; he's had a rough two weeks and if anyone other than Doña Lupe and Misty deserves grieving in their own way, it's Vik.

Her gut twists when she realizes she'll have to say something, anything. Vik's story is heartwarming in a sense, watching Jackie grow up, being a sort of boxing mentor to him, getting knocked out after twelve rounds with a solid one to the jaw. He isn't the mawkish type, the kind to wail and pontificate about heartbreak and sorrow and regret, how the deceased made him feel—and she's thankful for it. But when he lingers over the candlelit altar—lips over the boxing glove he's offering, the subtle flare of his nostrils taking in a shaky breath—the sharp pain over her heart takes over and V feels her control start to slip through her fingers, hiding her twisting features in her hands in hopes to rein herself in.

_Get it together. This isn't about you._

The couch dips next to her, warmth returning to her with a quiet sniffle. He's trying so hard to keep calm. Should she pat his hand, or would that break him?

She has no time to deliberate this when Doña Lupe asks if there's anyone else who'd like to say a few words. She has none. And yet there's this overwhelming sense of duty within her that prompts her to stand like a fool and face the crowd of mourners staring back at her. From a table in the back, Gustavo Orta holds his glass in expectation, his manicured brow arched in doubt; Padre is unreadable as always, staring down from the balcony; Doña Lupe's lips are trembling and her tear-swollen eyes are frisking V’s for any kind words about her boy; Vik's not even looking at her and that might hurt the most. And Misty. Poor Misty is by the vending machine trying so hard not to stand out too much, but her dark makeup is running down her face. Even then she manages a saint-like reassuring smile and she nods.

V grips the dog-eared Ernest Hemingway book in her hand.

And she has nothing. Nothing about how Jackie took her in when she had absolutely no one. Nothing about how Jackie introduced her to everything she ever had in Night City, had been her guide through this shithole, how they often would sit on the roof after thievery gigs, laughing over Brosephs about how they’d almost gotten caught, and how this is the one time that death laughed back in their face. How she owes that man her life.

How it should have been she that died.

And so, she opens the book and reads a quote:

“ _Don’t ever kid yourself about loving someone. It is just that most people are not lucky enough ever to have it. You never had it before and now you have it...Whether it lasts just through today and a part of tomorrow, or whether it lasts for a long life is the most important thing that can happen to a human being. There will always be people who say it does not exist because they cannot have it. But I tell you it is true and that you have it and that you are lucky even if you die tomorrow.”_

Misty has her hand over her mouth again, eyes disappearing in an inky, tearful squint. Jackie would have felt that way about her even if he never vocalized it so eloquently. It’s important for her to know that right now.

The book looks out of place in a table full of bottles of tequila, guns, knives, and Vik's boxing gloves, but fits well with the candles, the synth-marigolds, and the various pictures of Jackie and paintings of La Virgen and La Santa Muerte. And inside the book, marking the quoted page despite the fact that no one will ever know, is a sketch she drew of Jackie and that iguana during their first heist. He'd been passed out, bored with waiting for the buyer and “Manny” had climbed on his chest. Fucker didn't even budge despite the sharp claws.

V manages a smile through a rattling breath.

 _“ _N_ os vemos 'horita, 'mano,” _ she whispers at his portrait. _See you soon, bro._

The drastic shift from confronting Doña Lupe about calling Misty a bitch whore to receiving his prized Nazaré, to holding her wailing figure in her arms drains her so much that she barely registers Pepe saying something when she snags a seat next to Vik. She hums in acknowledgment to whatever the fuck he just said, because nothing matters right now, and taps her glass to the bar, signaling for two; one for Vik, who's been staring at an empty glass for minutes now.

“I'm gonna miss him. Already do.”

Vik laughs, his voice hoarse and lilting with the waves of intoxication. “Me too, _chica!”_ he yells, his American accent far too harsh on the _c_ sound, but then he sighs, and his tone is back to its low, dour, near monotone rumble. “Me too.”

They toast to Jackie and sit in a long stretch of silence between them, a fine gauze muffling out the clinking glasses, the loud chatter, the expected occasional wail and drunken argument, and the _corrido_ written just for Heywood's newly risen legend. She wonders if he blames her. If she'd just listened to Vik and declined the job, she and Jackie could’ve been sitting here together, laughing far too loudly and talking about the frivolous shit he'd buy once he got his mom a house in North Oak.

She's trying not to look at him, but she catches him turning away and bringing his knuckle under his glasses. Though she decides it's best not to say anything, nor look at him, she turns away to look at the bar while her hand rests and squeezes at the padded shoulder on his suit jacket. Not before long, his dry, warm hand pats the top of hers.

The missing piece of the puzzle is Misty. She's by the piano now. Must've gotten the okay from Jack's mom, but if she holds herself any tighter, she's going to collapse in on herself. V waves her over and, although her gaze drops to the floor, she relents when V moves over and pats the stool between her and Vik.

Except Misty doesn't drink, does she?

“ _Té Matcha, por favor,”_ Misty says, her accent rounding out the _o_ and _r_ sounds.

Pepe grimaces. _“Té?”_

“ _¿Tú no escuchas, puñeta?”_ V snaps. Acting like he didn't just hear her.

Misty settles her hand over hers and starts to tell her it isn't a big deal but every time Pepe opens his stupid fucking mouth heat starts to prickle at her neck. The girl's been through this much, had been denied an invitation to her own output's funeral, and now this overgrown dick cheese wants to give her lip about some fucking tea?

“Who orders tea at a bar? At a funeral? We're all drinkin' tequila.”

“It's right behind you.”

“Fucking disrespectful, is what it is. Lucky Montserrat doesn't throw your ass out on the street.”

There are no thoughts. Only actions. The barstool wobbles with a clang and the tequila in her glass splashes all over Pepe's stunned face. There's shouting and the world is shaky and shimmering and now Misty is crying and Pepe is in her face and V swears she'll beat the shit out of him and somewhere Doña Lupe is weeping out over another prayer and Padre's just looking on and Vik slips between her and Gustavo before he can shove her...

And V feels herself break. Her body slumps down and her head and arms hit the counter as she sobs into it.

Fuck.

Jackie is dead.

Doña Lupe and Misty and Vik have lost the most important person in their lives.

Night City is short a ray of much-needed sunshine.

And V, the one with nothing and nobody to miss her, is still alive. Dying, but still ashamedly alive and present. And when Johnny Silverhand inevitably takes over her body, it'll still be her face, her unabashed face to look these people in the eye. Still alive.

It should have been her.

Even when different pairs of nameless arms encircle her shoulders, she can't stop thinking about it.

_It should have been me._

Vik gives her an awkwardly silent ride home that night.

And so, V does what she does best the morning after: disappears. Runs. No matter how many messages she receives, she doesn't answer, can't answer, too ashamed to answer.

**[Vik |September 23** **rd** **| 2:25 pm]**

_[Overdue for the check-up, V. Don't make me drag your ass in here.]_

**[Misty | September 30** **th** **| 6:00 pm]**

_[Hey, V. :) Just checking in. Me and Vik are worried something bad happened.]_

**[Doña Lupe | October 15** **th** **| 9:02 am]**

_[Mija, I know you're embarrassed, but you can't call me? Dame una llamadita, pues. Or pick up the phone, at least!]_

Instead, she lets whatever shred of self-respect melt away in the smoky shadows of bars, elbow deep in scop gigs in her newfound rep for FUBARing jobs, swimming in alcohol, flying with 'dorphs, diving into strangers' beds, and tangling with joytoys.

Of course, she finds joy with no one: not Dusty, not Charlene, nor the strangers, not even herself. Turns out that the combination of impending death and a raging, pugnacious digital demon and the medications that keep him quiet often kills her ability to enjoy herself. Johnny doesn't know whether to laugh at her misery or throw a fit at his urgent need for release.

The first several times, she can't concentrate: lights are too bright, sheets are bunched up under her in the wrong way or they're too loud under the friction, gets a cramp in her jaw or her leg, keeps thinking of what a piece of shit she is, hating herself for daring to even think of telling her friends that she's terrified and that she's drowning somewhere between wanting to die and fearing death while they're deep in mourning...But she's desperate for a warm body near her, to pretend she isn't utterly alone, to pretend someone loves her and won't leave, even if it's for an hour or an evening.

When she finally gets there after the umpteeth time (with the guy from Riot, of all people), she cries, and she cries every time she achieves the height of pleasure after that. Despite Johnny's ongoing commentary about just how fucking pitiful she is, she wants to ask him if he'll just hold her for a bit. But she can already tell the mere idea of it would raise Dino's hackles.

“Shut the door when you leave,” she says, turning over. He knows the drill.

Clothes swish and buckles clink and rattle behind her.

“See ya later, girlie."

**[Vik | October 20** **th** **| 11: 25 am]**

_[Misty's worried. At least give her a call, kid.]_

Dusty asks her why she keeps coming back to him, and she dismisses it as him having good customer service.

**[Vik | November 1** **st** **| 3:06 am]**

_[At least make sure you go to someone who knows what the hell they're doing. A faulty OS is the last thing you need in that head of yours.]_

**[6:25 am]**

_[Got a Sandevistan in last week, by the way.]_

The Badlands become her haven again, supplying her shelter from prying eyes, deceptive kindness and beauty—all ugliness and danger brazen and naked to the eye. The food is just as real as the nights spent in hunger, and although she's alone, she's always been and she can see it clearly now. She can wash the sand-crusted blood off her hands and cry herself to sleep and not pretend that she's alright, not act like she can handle taking lives like plucking grain off a field in the name of feeding herself, that despite having lived her life smuggling corpses and people and drugs and other illegal shit she will never get used to the sight of human flesh and rib cages torn open and scavved for parts, nor dead joytoys' bodies discarded near dumpsters, nor packs of dead-eyed orphaned children running around with guns while chromed-out centenarians peer down at them from lofty penthouse suites. And it's in the Badlands she meets a new fixer, Dakota: reliable, straightforward, discreet; it is also the place she meets Panam, a fellow techie and kindred spirit with a temper as explosive as her RPG, and Mitch, Scorpion, and the Aldecaldos, a group she feels may become her new family.

Until they lose Scorpion to her need to find the ultimately useless Hellman.

And then it's Heywood all over again and, upon finding out her situation is utterly hopeless, V feels the overwhelming itch to run again. So she decides to ride aimlessly, devoid of any other feeling but the guilt she’s so desperately trying to shrug off.

“People die,” Johnny says, sunning himself on a warm rock like a lizard while she packs up her tent. “Get over it.”

If it's possible to angrily pack luggage harder, V does just that. “Ain't you. Can't just go on 'n pretend a couple hundred people haven't died to satisfy my whims.”

He scoffs. “But you can sure turn tail when shit gets rough, huh?”

She lets go of the zipper and it unravels, spilling half the contents of the bag. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“God forbid you gotta face the consequences for your actions.” He starts picking at his chipped nail polish. “No, then you gotta cry like a bitch about it like being sorry's gonna save your ass.”

A harsh, bitter laugh scrapes out of her dry throat. “For real? We gonna talk about taking responsibility? A’ight. Wanna talk about Kerry? And Blackhand? And Rogue?”

His syn-leather pants scrape with a hiss against the rock as he sits up. “They knew the stakes and I never expected them to forgive me.”

She sighs in exasperation as she rearranges the weapons, ammo, meds and clothes back in the bag. “Nah, you just kept waltzing into their lives anyway.”

He leans forward. “And they coulda said no.”

“Shut the fuck up for once.”

“See, that's what I'm talkin' about right there. You keep avoiding the issue.” A spark of blue glitches him inches from her, and she feels the phantom of his finger jabbing into her forehead. “And that's why we fit so well together, you 'n me, cunt.”

Her teeth grind together until her jaw clicks. “Before I am dead,” she seethes, Nomad accent seeping through, “I swear to God, I will have you begging to go first.”

Dakota doesn't say much when she turns scop gig by scop gig for hard eddies. Hard eddies means untraceability—a must-have for those wanting to stay invisible.

“Stay strong, sister,” is the last thing Dakota tells her before V disappears into Night City again.

Three months. It's been three months since Jackie died, since Johnny lodged himself in her brain, and one month since she's stepped foot in this hellhole. And it's like plunging into the ocean, cold and all encompassing, threatening to swallow you down and drown you the second you let your guard down, the second you let anyone in.

And then there's Judy.

It's supposed to be a one-time thing, the whole BD editing thing to get to the fucking Relic, but now that Evelyn is missing, the gorgeous ex-Mox is back in her life and it isn't long before her grief bursts forth in a fit of rage. The way she looks at V, though... There's a certain darkness in Judy's deep brown eyes, full of want and desperation, likely mirroring her own. There's attraction there but after Evelyn, after Clouds, after the night they spend at the lakehouse V decides they are far too broken inside and out to ever be able to comfort each other, for V to ever bring anything but more death and misfortune at her doorstep.

What was the legend Takemura talked about, again? _Bakeneko?_ Sounded about right.

Jackie, all those Arasaka security guards merely doing their jobs to put scraps of food in their mouths, and now Scorpion...A garage full of dead friends’ vehicles. 

The sooner V is gone, the better off the world is.

A burst of pale blue lights renders her sight null for a few seconds, the whirr of engines the one clue alerting her to oncoming traffic. Must be close to Rancho Coronado; roads are mostly empty out in the desert. Closer and closer, it speeds in her opposite direction.

What would happen if she were to veer into it? Would she feel the impact? Would the wheels crush her skull? Would she get thrown out, away, and lie in a ditch for hours, bleeding out in solitude? Or would it be instant? Would anyone care?

She would be free.

Yeah.

She would be free.

A horn bellows.

Johnny screams.

A thud and she's weightless. Weightless like a feather in the wind. Weightless, feeling her lack of importance.

It's so clear now.

Until she hits the cactus needles, the withered palm branches, the jagged rocks and sand, ripping hot through syn-leather and denim and flesh. A pile of bleeding meat and bones, crying out in the empty desert. No one is coming for her here. No one can hear her out here.

“You fucking... What the fuck?” Johnny glitches in and holds his arms out, standing over her.

V can’t breathe between the sobs and searing pain over her arms, her back, her legs, the bright ache in her ribs and ankle. Johnny’s ranting and berating her but she can’t hear him and it doesn’t matter anyway because the desert is going to swallow her up and they’ll both be gone soon. The inside of her head is more full of knives than Julius Caesar, and he’s pacing and going on and on, driving them deeper and deeper into her brain.

A blink and the sky is dotted with glittering stars. It’s been hours, probably. She’s surprised she hasn’t been bitten or stung or picked apart by some desert creature. Smart little bastards staying away from her.

“Oh, would you stop feeling sorry for yourself and take another fucking Bounce Back already?”

The sand beneath her is devoid of heat, feels like a sheet of ice penetrating the aching marrow of her bones, but she can’t muster the energy nor fucks to move.

“Want me to take over again? That it? You giving up like a pussy?”

“Do it. That’s what you’ll wind up doing anyway.”

She expects him to lash out, call her everything she already knows she is. 

Instead, he takes a seat next to her, facing away toward the sierra.

“After the war, I…” There’s tension clicking in his jaw. A gust of midnight wind howls between the hanging silence, tangles in his shaggy black hair. “Look, I get it, kid. I do. That’s all you need to know.” 

Johnny takes a drag from his cigarette.

The cuts on her knees and arms have started to scab.

“After Rogue...the first time. Coupl’a times after that.”

And here they are, the two of them. The cruel mistress that is life denies them death on their own terms, instead promising to tear at them piece by piece at its own pace. 

V manages to sit up despite the flames licking at the inside of her lungs and makes the agonizing crawl toward her bike, scratched up but whole and hanging over the mangled rail, toward the strewn-about bag pinned beneath it, toward the last of her Bounce Backs. It hisses into her bleeding thigh, burns as the muscle fibers and bone begin to knit together. She can worry about her ankle later.

She rings Dakota up on the holo, asks for a favor once the air returns to her lungs and the ringing in her ear quietens. She’s gotta take care of this. Fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just what exactly is your name, Mama Welles? Guadalupe Alejandra? Montserrat? Guadalupe Alejandra Montserrat? What is the truth?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V returns to Night City in hopes of mending her relationships.
> 
> Vik likes shitty movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angst in the beginning, but plenty of fluff and bone-crushing cringe comedy ahead.

The morning after the Pacifica debacle, she has a seizure, or so Johnny tells her. Every muscle in her body feels like it's been run over by a Militech truck full of mechs. Her neck has more kinks than a Jig-Jig Street BD store and there are traces of her body fluids on her clothes, mattress, and pillow, and not even the hottest shower can make the pain and humiliation any better. Can't wait anymore. Her body is deteriorating at an alarming rate, and the longer she waits, the smaller the chance for her to—

The holo rings.

The name “Misty Olszewski” lights up the holo display.

It's been far too long. Far too long for a, _'Hey! How've ya been?'_ What's she supposed to say at this point? ‘ _Sorry I ghosted in your time of need; I've been too busy feeling sorry for myself?’_

“If ya don't wanna answer, then don't,” Johnny says. “But I don't wanna hear any of that sadsack bullshit later.”

Why does he always have to be an asshole? Worse yet, why does he always have to be right?

Misty waves from the screen. The absence of makeup makes her look older, and it does nothing to obscure the ruddiness of her cheeks, her nose, her puffy eyelids, and dark circles. How long has she been crying like this? How long has V ignored this?

“Hey, V,” she calls out with a weak laugh and a wave. “I know you're busy, but...”

“No, no...” Her heart sinks into her stomach. “What's up? You look upset.”

Another laugh. “I'm...Mama Welles and I...” She wipes her eye. “Things are okay. But, she gave me some stuff of Jackie's. Says I should have it. And I...” Her gaze falls to her lap. “V, I don't think I can do it. Can't bring myself to open it. Not by myself.” The brittleness in her voice tightens the knot in V's throat. “And I was hoping, if you're not busy that is—”

“Shit, yeah, of course. Yeah. Gimme a sec. Lemme hop in the shower. Be there in a few.”

Doña Lupe: yet another person she's neglected in the name of saving her own ass. Should probably give her a call soon. Or show up in person. Apologize.

If she's gone through Jackie's things, then she knows for sure what's in the box currently on Misty's couch—or at least in part—and she's not sure she'll be able to handle her reaction to it. But for now, she settles on the couch next to her, taking in the blues and purples and golds of her ornate, incense-scented apartment, graciously sipping a mug of chamomile and valerian tea. Which, much to her chagrin, reminds her:

“Listen...Wanted to apologize for things, back at the funeral. Made a scene, made it worse.” Her permanently grease-stained nails tap at the ceramic.

“V, I knew what you were trying to do.” She tilts her head. “That's what I like most about you, I think. You're loyal. Your heart is always in the right place. Jackie knew that, too.”

She snorts, and it's either in self-deprecation or to hide the splinter twisting in her heart. If only she knew. V shakes it off and gestures toward the box.

“So, things been going well with Doña Lupe?”

Misty shrugs. “She's sweet in her own way. I don't think she understands I'm a vegan, so you know...The whole...'food thing.'” 

Ah, yes. The notorious Latin-culture “food thing.” Don't refuse food when offered, as it's extremely insulting. 

“I mean she hasn't been outright upset over it but…” She wraps an arm over her stomach. “She keeps saying I'm too skinny.”

“Always look for ways to make others feel bad about their weight, huh?” Yet another shared trait between Jackie's culture and hers.

“And I think she's using me to avoid thinking about Jackie's death. Like she's adopting me as a daughter. Someone new to take care of.” Misty sighs. “Not sure that's healthy.”

What is healthy? V no longer knows. Nothing makes sense anymore. She must have missed that elective class or something. Deep green eyes are straying toward the box, full of apprehension as if merely touching the box would burn her.

“Hey. Don't gotta do this now, just 'cause I'm here. We can wait 'til you're ready.”

“No, no. It's, um...” She swallows and tucks a lock of unstyled blonde hair behind her ear. “It's been a few days. It's time, I think.” Shaky fingers lift a cardboard flap, then another. And then the last two. And to V's relief, Misty sighs and beams, albeit tearfully. A neat stack of stills sits in her hand. “These are from our first month together.”

A pair of gonks in love, with Jackie's towering, hulking frame curled over and embracing Misty's petite body, cheek pressed against hers in that goofy grin of his. From the underwater dancers, they were at Below Deck, that club she saw advertised on the shop's posters.

“They did a rendition of _La Sylphide_ that night... His idea to go. I thought he'd hate it, but by the end, he snotted up all my tissues.”

Always a soft-hearted one, that Jackie Welles.

Vivid sunrises at the beach, a club with neon so loud she could practically feel the bass in her throat, a quiet candlelit dinner on the rooftop of her apartment... There's no denying that Jackie was hopelessly in love with Misty, going out of his way to make her happy.

A soft gasp pulls her attention to the little knick-knacks in the box. A few containers of hand-blended incense and oils, a meditation BD recorded by Misty herself. She gives so much of herself, open, vulnerable to cruelty without expecting anything in return. Hell, they both gave so much to others, it's like they were made for each other. It wouldn't surprise her if Padre decided to use connections to have him and Misty canonized in the church, even if she wasn't a believer.

At the bottom of the box was a smaller container, matte black, and square, weighty for its palm-size.

V takes a deep breath. She's not ready. There's no telling how Misty will react, so she settles for sipping her near-empty mug if only to have something to do. Misty's giving her this questioning look, every observant and intuitive that something is off. But V shrugs it off and points at it with her chin.

“Not ready?”

“No, I just...” Her fingers drag easily through her freshly-washed, limp hair. “You...You know what's in here already.”

Her shoulders stiffen as do the fingers around the empty mug. But she relents, nods.

Misty breathes an unsteady breath, nods, and turns her attention to the little box on her lap. So innocuous and yet, it could change things altogether. And yet not at all, simultaneously. Change memories, tweak their meaning, but never the ending. V wonders if such a thing is worth it.

She chuckles ruefully, her button nose scrunching up. “I'm scared. Isn’t that gonked?”

V shakes her head, takes Misty's hand in hers. “No. But we don't have to right now if you're not ready.”

“I know, I know.” Her hands fidget together, then trace the lid. There's this old movie V's uncle loved, she recalls, where the protagonists nearly die trying to retrieve this golden box that they're not supposed to open; of course, the bad guys open it and their faces melt off. She doubts Misty's face will melt off from opening this tiny thing, but the same tension is there.

But, when it clicks open, there's no reaction. She's just sitting there blinking as if there's a delay between her opticals and her processor.

The silence is so fucking tense.

Is she disappointed?

Why isn't she saying anything?

The marquise cut rose quartz, amethyst, and opal ring sits between her fingers like she can't figure out what it is, what it's for—what it was intended for.

“When Jackie got the bike,” V finally starts, shifting her legs on the couch, “he asked me to help him pick out something special for you.” A sad chuckle leaves her. “Neither of us know... _knew_ a lot about crystals, but he remembered some stuff, looked stuff up. He, uh...” _Oh, no. Don't you dare start. This isn't about you._ She takes a deep, deep breath, drowning the emotion out of her voice. “Was gonna give it to you after the gig at Konpeki. Propose.”

Misty shakes her head. “Oh, Jackie,” she sighs. When her expression teeters over that tightrope of joy and heartbreak, V feels a droplet fall to her lap. So much for staying strong.

Until now, Johnny's been watching them wordlessly, face unreadable behind his blacked-out aviators. But when V wipes her face with the heel of her hand, he turns and glitches away.

“You, uh... You were everything to him. Would go on and on about how you were the only one who got him. The real him. He, um...” V wipes at her nose with her sleeve, playing off a heaving, quivering sob as a laugh. “He really loved ya. So fucking much.”

Misty can no longer hold herself up, pressing the ring to her chest as the grief over what could have been consumes her body. And V is there, her shoulder soaking up her tears. The tears she never showed, not even when she talked about Jackie right after V woke up from her coma. The tears she never cried as she pushed her wheelchair all those blocks to her apartment, to her bed, while V sat there going on about being someone else, never once mentioning that Jackie absorbed all these bullets for her. Her arms wrap around Misty if it's the only thing she can do to comfort her.

Later, Misty asks her if she can stay the night, that she isn't ready to be alone tonight, and V agrees, taking her couch while they spend the evening and morning talking about the old days, about how Jackie used to be a skinny crybaby, the time he taught her how to steal snacks from vending machines, and how he'd take her on rides on his old, rusty jalopy of a Galena—which Misty happened to love—about her brief stint in Nepal, and how Misty is the middle child of 3 siblings, how her parents moved back to Poland, and about V's equally fucked up family.

Around noon, after a round of chai tea and scrambled tofu, Misty assures her she's okay and that she doesn't want to keep her. V insists it isn't a big deal, that she doesn't have plans—to which Johnny grumbles about finding Mikoshi—but Misty has her ways of seeing through her and tells her she'll be okay.

But, as V turns to leave, she adds:

“Wait. There's another reason I called, actually.” She presses her lips into a fine line. “It's about Vik.”

Hasn't been getting any sleep lately. The lights in his clinic are always on and she's caught him nodding off at his Spunky Munky-littered desk several times. Refuses to go home, apparently.

After picking up a couple of fresh-baked strawberry conchas and Portuguese egg tarts, she finds him passed out and snoring, slumped over his desk, the pale glow from the monitor spilling over his face, and pressed into the smooth desktop, wet with drool, while his glasses lay at the edge of the desk. Just as Misty said. Always worried about everyone else, except himself. Stubborn old ripper. V can't decide whether that's a virtue or a fatal flaw, but one thing is clear to her: she loves him. Loves Misty, too, but this is different in a way she can't identify other than the unbearable ache to tangle her fingers through his thick black hair, to press a kiss against his temple, and whisper in his ear.

“Wake him up and show him your tits,” Johnny offers, his legs dangling over the Kiroshi sign. “All it takes. Trust me.”

“He's not you.”

“Could be right.” His voice sounds hollow in the clinic's open space, and he leans back, visibly bored. “Too small. Should go get 'em done. Probably more of an ass man, anyway. Should get rid of those boxers. Those ratty granny panties gotta go, too.”

She flips him off and he returns it with a grin.

With trepidation, her hand presses against Vik's back, gently rubbing and shaking him awake.

“I'm _fine!”_ The outline of his ripper tool and the edge of the desk have engraved themselves into his cheek in red. He squints those thick-lashed sunflower eyes of his and takes the glasses from her, and it isn't until he puts them back on that he recognizes her. “V,” he croaks in a glacial voice. “Clinic's closed. Come back tomorrow.”

“Ain't here for a check-up.” Trying to let his indifference roll off her back, she digs into her jacket pocket and hands him a roll of eddies. “Twenty-five thou'. For the Kiroshis. A little extra. For everything.”

He frowns at the cash in her hand as if she'd handed him a half-bitten Pop-turd or something equally useless, and _tsks_ at her. “Hold on to 'em. You need 'em more than me.”

There he is again. Trying to be selfless at his own expense and she isn't sure whether that pisses her off or endears her right now, but her hand is on his, curling it into the eddies. 

“I'm not taking these all the way to my grave, Vik,” she tries to laugh it off as if it weren't so true. “Just wanted to thank you for doing so much for me without ever seeing an enny.”

Vik sighs in defeat. “That's what friends are for.”

It's selfish, she knows, to let her hands linger over his skin and soak up the heat from his body, memorize the contours of his forearm and fingers even if she can't in good conscience trace them, let her fingers wander and explore because he's her friend, her motherfucking _friend,_ and she can't betray him again and not in this manner. Still, she slides her hand down his arm before removing it altogether, if only to keep the memory in her mind, if it's the last thing she remembers before Johnny finishes destroying her from the inside, the last gleam of light to cling to until the end. But he's staring at her and her chest feels tight. Did he notice? Did she make him feel uncomfortable?

“You look terrible.”

Ah, there he is. Good ol' Vik. Always makes her laugh.

“Says the man with drool crust on his face.”

He rubs at his cheek and snorts.

“C'mon. Misty's worried sick about you, so I gotta drag your ass home.”

“Eh, she worries too much. Got a couch in the back.”

“Gonna fuck up your back like that.”

Vik groans, scrubs at his face. “I'm not...” He sighs. “Can't sleep.”

V crosses her arms, tapping her fingers against the crook of her elbow in thought. “I can give ya a ride around the block a few times 'til ya fall asleep,” she teases. “Always worked for my baby cousin.”

It thankfully doesn't lull him to sleep, but works out better than she ever could hope: Vik's arms secure around her waist, his broad chest against her back as her Apollo weaves in and out of traffic, car lights zipping past her in streaks like shooting stars and it’s as if she and Vik are traveling at hyperspeed through the galaxy, and it's a goddamn space opera where they'll wind up at the Crystal Palace and time will stop just for them, just for a few hours when her body isn't tearing itself apart in the image of someone else, when there isn't an incarnation of her own self-hatred intensifying the colossal shadow of loneliness looming over her.

Maybe Johnny was right—she's more like him than she thinks.

The ride is short enough that her body mourns the loss of his touch but relishes the brush of his fingertips when he hands back the spare helmet, and thanks to her Kerenzikov, she stretches the moment out as far as she possibly can before it snaps back into the present and her fingers are cold again.

The threat of a migraine stabs behind the bone between her eyes, but she manages to offer a tired smile and a wave. And yet he's standing there, stance swaying in that casual way she seldom gets to see; his hand grasps the back of his neck and it's likely due to the way he's been passing out that has his neck muscles knotted together in the same way her stomach is right now.

“Let me get ya something for the road, at least,” he says and her heart soars, even if half of her knows it's in vain. Just for the moment, she wants to believe he wants something else. That he wants her. Even if it's just her company. Or if it's just her body. Anything. Everything. It's pathetic, she knows, but at this moment she's beyond caring, beyond pride. “Can't have ya falling asleep at the wheel.”

Another memory to carve into her rotting brain, so permanent that even Johnny will feel it when he's taken over, so that a tiny part of her, the faintest whisper of her ghost will sigh in nostalgia long after she's gone. Vik fights back a yawn as they climb the dimly-lit stairwell to the third floor. If only to silence Johnny, she avoids looking up, avoids the way the seams and pockets of his dark jeans hug the contours of his thighs and ass because, goddammit, Vik is her _friend_.

“Friends fuck each other all the time,” Johnny offers from the top of the stairs.

His apartment is relatively clean, though from the small stack of mugs caked in old coffee sitting in the sink, it's from disuse. There's a shoe rack by the door where he places his boots, and she surmises he wants her to do the same. The small gooseneck lamp on his desk sports a blanket of dust over its hood, the bulb flickering in and out; above it, against the wall hangs an analog bulletin board with several papers which she passes off as invoices, along with a few fliers: local boxing matches, virtus and movies, and a few band posters, one of which sports an advertisement for the next Eurodyne concert.

There’s a small squeak of a meow somewhere from below: a hairless, bug-eyed cat with rolls of sagging skin. It’s one of those ‘so ugly, it’s cute,’ type of things.

“And who is this?” she squeals, taking it into her arms. It purrs and earnestly seeks out the touch of her hand when she pets it, makes her heart melt.

“Misty found it in the alley. Asked me to watch it one night for her, and the next day claimed it would be therapeutic if I kept it.”

That smart, precious woman. 

“What’s her name?”

“...Floyd.”

She screws up her face, starts to lift the cat when he adds:

“It’s what it responds to. She.”

He gives her a tour of the place: a basic one-bedroom apartment reminiscent of Judy’s. Sparkling trophies, framed medals, and stills litter the shelves of a bookcase. Many of the stills are of people she’s never met, though a few of them ring familiar; there are three with Vik standing next to a young Jackie and two other boys. A couple of them are of a curly-haired girl in her late teens holding a diploma; V assumes she’s another one of his various protegés. The still that catches her eye most, though is the one of a group of young street punks gathered in front of a boxing ring. She immediately recognizes the buff young man as Vik: dark hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, gauges, and a snakebite ring on his bruised lip. Be still her little heart. He’s not wearing his glasses, and he’s dressed in body-hugging acid-washed jeans ripped at the knees, sans shirt. A towel is thrown over his shoulder, and he’s holding up some sort of championship belt in his hands. A stockier guy with cybernetic optics and a loc’ mullet has his arm around him. A middle-aged woman with red hair stands next to Vik, proudly clutching his shoulder.

“Holy shit. This you?”

He glances up from the pot of coffee he's pouring. “Hah, yeah. Had just won my first tournament,” he offers. “Guy with the optics was my foster brother, Will. Woman was Tricia, our foster mother.

“Was?”

Their mugs sit on the plastic tabletop with a soft click. “Crossfire. Tyger Claws and Valentinos.”

“Shit. I'm sorry.”

He shrugs, plops down on the couch next to her, props his feet up on the couch. “Went 'round the corner to sneak us a couple of Brosephs...Ah, he'd just gotten that 640 TS, too. Poor bastard.” He shifts around, arches his back into the cushion. His nose scrunches up and he tugs at his socks. “Ah, Jesus. Gimme a sec. Haven't taken these off in two days.” He leaves for what she assumes is the bathroom.

“Ah, sure. I'll head on home.”

A head of messy black hair pokes out and he shrugs. “If that's what ya want.” And he disappears into the room. “Ain't goin' to sleep anytime soon.”

“Looks like he wants to fuck you after all. Congrats, V.”

The shower hisses on and she sinks into the couch, eyes squeezed shut as the relic wreaks a blinding headache across her skull. Everything is glitchy and white and blue and she tastes copper and nicotine on her tongue that isn't actually there. Johnny's at Vik's desk, thumbing through his vinyl discs as if he owns the place,

“Would ya look at that?” He flashes a self-assured grin over his chrome shoulder as he holds up a David Bowie. “Finally, someone with good taste.”

V spirals her finger in mock celebration and gives in to the heaviness weighing at her eyelids. What's she even doing here anymore? Vik gave her the okay to go. Does he even want her to stay? It's okay if she stayed, though, right? A soft guitar riff near catapults her out of her seat. Johnny snorts at her, standing by the record player, now on and playing _'Ziggy Stardust.'_

It's much better, she notes, being like this than being alone with the droning hum of the fridge and the screech of complete silence and the raging roar of her doubts. And before she knew it, she was humming along. She’s been told she carries a tune like soup on a fork. Those people can get fucked.

“Oh...” Her ankle flicks her foot out to the beat. “I get it now. You're Ziggy.”

Johnny doesn't react.

“Talented. Huge ego. Bandmates fuckin' _hate_ your guts. Fucked anything with a pulse. A savior from corporate tyranny lost to martyrdom. Tragic.”

Those aviators obscure a lot of his expression, limited already without them in the first place, but he leaves the record player and glitches to the window, leaning out to smoke his non-existent cigarette.

Guess that hit a little too close to home.

“Y'know, if that head sponge of yours was as half as smart as your mouth, woulda found a way to get this chip out by now,” he grumbles.

Through her exhaustion, she manages to snicker, “Die mad about it.”

Vik walks into the living room, running his fingers through his wet hair, dressed in a dark grey undershirt and a familiar pair of sweatpants. Faded navy blue with a drawstring. They could be any pair from how unremarkable they are, but she recognizes the fading and tears around the cuffs—aside from them being far too tight around the hips, the pants legs were far too long for her and she'd tripped on them more than once around her apartment. He'd lent them to her after the whole thing with...

“Bowie fan?” he asks.

“Surprised?”

He shakes his head and sits by her side. “Suppose nothin' surprises me about ya anymore, kid.”

Again with the goddamn ‘kid.’

“Welp.” She smacks her hands against her thighs, squeezes them with anxious resolve. “Can't leave here 'til ya go to sleep. Promised Misty.”

“Gonna be here a while, then.” He rolls his shoulders. “No need for that. I'll rest up today. Get back to work tomorrow. Alright?”

V purses her lips, concealing a smirk. “Mhm. Dunno that I believe that.”

He draws his eyebrows down. “When have I ever lied to ya?” He hasn't, but he's prone to work himself raw, and often for free, and what she saw at the clinic an hour back was proof he would have a hard time getting himself to rest.

“How long ya been like this?” she asks.

“Like what?”

“Not sleeping.”

“Funny. Recall ya waking me up earlier.”

“In your bed. On _a_ bed.”

Vik snorts in response. He slips his glasses off for a brief moment, head leaning back on the backrest while he rubs at his eyes. “You?”

Touché. Something about gunshots and her head cracking open, about Jackie's pupils widening in a gape as life gradually slips away from them, about Johnny's hands wringing around her neck and something about being torn out of tons of concrete and rebar puncturing her stomach and lungs and shoulders while she's dragging herself out of heaps of festering garbage and that Alt woman laughs and spins and spins and—

The monitor flicks on. He’s flipping through channel upon channel of ads and news and stocks, but nothing good is on. They eventually settle on watching _Bushido XVII: Texas Holds Him_ , which franchise fans and critics alike agree is the worst of them all, and yet the pay-per-view listing has Vik renting it out 3 times (not to mention a recent—11—purchases of _Maids of Satan 2;_ she'll have to tease him about that later). She presses a smirk back into a thin line, but Vik catches it.

“Don't look at me like that. Bike scenes are great.”

“Mhm. Riding off into the sunset like cowboys on steel horses...” She tilts her head, brings her knees up on the couch again. “Never took ya for the sentimental type, Vik.” That's complete bullshit. Unsentimental people didn't place keepsakes around, didn't treasure stills, get tattoos of life events nor people.

He grumbles. “It was Jackie's favorite. 'Sides, don't it remind you of ridin' with your clan?”

It's a common glamorized picture of nomad life: riding across the country with your family and chooms, the wind in your hair and vibrating, roaring metal between your legs, free from the grasp of corpos and greed, a symbol of communal anarchy where everything is everyone's and loyalty to each other and honor are above all. Truth is, most nations, clans, and families are no different than corporations or gangs: you don't agree with the higher-ups, you get taken out like yesterday's trash.

“Spent a lot of my life in RVs and 18-wheelers, actually.” Her chuckle is far too dry to be genuine, she knows, but she starts picking, picking, picking at her nails again because she knows he'll see through her. “Ain't always belong to the Bakkers, y'know. Grew up on the East Coast. Blood Nation, Gargoyle clan? The whole Boston-Washington Maglev thing was our... _their_ deal. And, uh... It ain't work out 'tween my uncle and our... _illustrious_ cyber-houngan, so... we rode for years trying to scrape by til we hit the west coast. Bakkers took us in when I was 'bout 14.”

Vik doesn't say anything other than a hum in acknowledgment but he's looking at her with that tilt of the head, in that focused way, like he fucking cares, something she still isn't used to. Not in the Gargoyles, not in the Bakkers, not in Night City.

“My uncle and,” she inhales, the next words coming out like bile, “my _mom_ , I guess...They stayed with the Bakkers. Snake Nation now, probably. No one wanted to step up, take responsibility, so we either left or let ourselves get devoured by...” She waves her hands around, tracing the meandering path of her jumbled thoughts. “I mean it's basically a bunch of corpos now, trying to be like The Meta, I guess, wanting to swallow everything in its path. And they let that happen.” 

A sigh and the seeping guilt dampens her voice. She isn't any better. And from the way Johnny has taken off his aviators and is tapping his 'ganic hand against his metal arm, she's correct in feeling that way. In her opinion, Johnny had been an insufferable, narcissistic asshole, but he'd taken action. And V simply ran away. 

“I let that happen. Didn't wanna step up. Didn't say anything.”

Silence drapes between them again, somewhere between comfortable and intolerable, but she can't dredge up anything else to say. She's spilled her emotional guts all over him and, while he's likely used to blood and bile and who-knows-what-else getting all over him, Vik's not so good with this shit and she's saddled him with it and there's no way of cleaning this up and—

“Can't fix everything. Get old enough 'n that eventually smacks ya in the face. Hurts like hell, but you're better off knowin' it.”

Another few beats of silence, and she's fixed on those glass-like irises and how they won't let her go, and she's imagining what they'd be like now, like in that picture, eyelashes darkened with smudged liner. Was he the bad boy type back then, getting into all sorts of trouble and all sorts of pants? The gauges on his ears hint at it, she thinks, and it's oddly sexy, imagining good ol' stable, gentle Vik being the rough and tumble kind. 

But he's turned his attention back to the movie, arm stretched over the backrest and it's not quite touching her, but shit, does she wish it was; just a scooch over to her right and she'd get the contact she so craves.

She's better than this.

She won't ruin this.

And so she faces the screen instead, taking the opposite corner of the couch. The cushion isn't as nice of a substitute for human contact, but it relieves the inexplicable longings in her arms somewhat. Large hands raise her ankles to stretch out on the couch, and the ache returns again.

“Movie's 'bout two hours too long. Better get comfortable.”

His touch lingers even as he turns his attention to the screen, but even when he pats her ankle and returns his hand to his lap, its weight and heat are still there and she can't help making a mental sketch of what it would feel like if he slithered higher, over her calf, dragging its way over her knee, the curve of her thigh and hip, settling at the dip of her waist, drawing her closer and closer until fuck it, they could deal with the consequences in the morning.

But his attention is back on the shitty film.

And what a shitty film it is.

V has never been much of a movie person: too antsy to stay still, itching for things to take apart, to study the whys and hows, improve, reassemble, repeat. But she's caught enough screamsheets to know that ever since Bushido 3, Lizzy Wizzy has occasionally graced— _read: haunted_ —the screens as Trixie Tanaka, the chromed-out manic pixie dream girl with a jaded heart; this time, she plays cardboard cookie-cutter protagonist Wayne St. Dallas' elusive love interest, armed with a vast knowledge of Pre-Collapse motorcycle engines, corporate accounting, kenjutsu and aikido, all in stiletto heels, long flawless synth-hair and a dazzling smile.

“These people really put racing tires on in the middle of Christmas, huh?” she scoffs.

“Hm?”

“Racing tires're absolute shit when the ground's cold. Can't get enough traction. Hit the tiniest puddle and you're _fucked.”_

Vik hums again, if only to let her know he heard her.

Perhaps it's silly of her to expect realism from a movie with background explosions every five minutes, chrome ninjas in tube tops, and cheesy one-liners. And yet, the urge to point out inconsistencies is trying to break through her gritted chrome teeth (the very ones Vik graciously replaced after another botched gig at Riot with Jackie.)

But, Vik's chuckling to himself, the deep creases on his forehead she once feared were permanent are starting to relax into softer fine lines. She can't deny she hates the movie: a corpo bitch and her boot-licking bodyguard sword fighting thieving, stereotypically filthy nomads on motorcycles, pulling maglev heists don't do anything to endear the clusterfuck film to her. However, the fight choreography is stylish with its bursts of light reflecting off cold metal, and the desert setting _might_ be plucking a chord of nostalgia in her heart.

“ _Here's an old-timey lesson, choomba,”_ Wayne seethes with a sun-squint as he aims his shiny revolver down at the cowering Nomad leader, “ _Ya don't mess with Texas.”_

A groan tears out of her throat before she can stop herself.

Vik snorts. “Yeah, uh, that's a bad one.”

“And yet you've watched this how many times?”

He stifles a yawn. “Give it a moment. You'll see.”

She watches droves of people get mowed over in a downed AV, watches every character either drinking NiCola or standing near a NiCola ad, watches Wayne infiltrate MaxTac to weed out the anarchist double agent, watches Trixie graphically fuck the guy with her Midnight Lady accessory (brand name fully on display, of course) and V still doesn't get it.

His breathing is starting to even out, deepen. Any moment now. Pale green eyes are barely open, managing a glance at the screen every now and then. “Mm. There it is, right here.”

The cinematic sunset is rosy and near-endless, save for a bronze-tinged sandstorm rolling in from afar. Wayne stands over a makeshift grave, the single “manly” tear allotted for hyper-masculine action heroes cutting a trail through his dusty, chiseled cheek. He plunges his fallen choom's katana into the sand and chants some butchered prayer for him, topping it off with a soft, _“Yee-haw, amigo.”_ And then he stands there, so small in comparison to the cliffs, the sand dunes and the fading light of the heavens above, and he's there, just taking it all in. The cool, evening breeze cards through his hair, and he's just...existing.

Before she can ask Vik if that's the scene that gets him, a soft snore pulls her to the fact that his chin is folded into his neck. Poor thing, he's going to work himself to an early grave. 

He’s unfairly handsome. His upper lip has such a streamlined cupid's bow that she often can't keep her eyes off his mouth.

She slides off his glasses and sets them on the table; he's broken them enough times that no amount of masking tape will fix them again.

“Vik,” she whispers, achingly close enough to kiss him. But she settles for running her fingers through his hair. “Go get in your bed, _papi.”_

Nothing. He doesn't turn or twitch in what she assumes is a deep sleep. Good. Grabbing a blanket from his neatly-made bedroom, she covers him with it and Vik frowns, shifts to a more comfortable position.

“'S late,” he murmurs. “Stay.”

Curse his ability to turn her, a cold-blooded mercenary capable of torturing the scavs who scrolled Evelyn's ordeal (and did so, and fucking relished it), into a fumbling schoolchild with their first crush. A two-syllable giggle escapes her. “Yeaaaahhh...I think you underestimate how big you are.”

“It's a big couch.” He draws his legs up a bit to give her some space. It's nowhere near enough, but the idea of driving through the damp Night City streets at 4 am makes her legs feel all noodle-y, and though she'll probably wind up with a neck cramp in the morning, sleeping near a warm body, _Vik’s_ of all people, seems like a dream. And so she relents, taking up the opposite corner and tucking her legs between him and the back cushions.

That night she doesn't dream or at least doesn't remember and that's good enough. No gunshots, no Johnny, no Jackie, no falling, no burning from the inside out. Just...sleep.

V awakens to the muffled, but steady thump of a heartbeat and the rumble of chainsaw-like snoring. Pretty sure she was on the other side of the couch when she fell asleep, so how...?

Vik's arm is wrapped around her waist, his tattooed one draped over his head, against the armrest and there's a trickle of drool down his chin. She snorts. If only she could take a still of him right now. Oh, he'd probably hate it, but Jackie would have loved it, made copies of it, hung them all over his clinic during closed hours for him to find in the morning.

A particularly loud snore jolts him awake and he smacks his lips together, blinking the sleep out of his eyes until they land on V, who's failing at biting back an amused smirk.

“Should get that looked at, choom. Those noises ain't human.”

He wipes his mouth with his free hand, takes a deep, sleepy breath. “You move around in your sleep way too much.”

“I do not.”

“Fell on the floor a coupl'a times. Had to drag you back on.”

Her smile grows wider, more wicked as he stokes the fire. “You sure you weren't just lookin' to cuddle?”

Vik is seldom flustered, from what she's witnessed; he's had joytoys and otherwise attractive men and women with sculpted, custom, perfect bodies with the latest accessories stroll in and get undressed in front of him, some outright flirting with him, passing on their contact info in case he wanted a good night's fuck. And he's just shrugged it off, given a throaty chuckle, as casually as if someone had just asked him for directions. But his ears are so red right now that she can practically feel them burning from where she is.

He clears his throat, breaks that satisfying eye contact and embrace, much to her disappointment.

“Never did drink that coffee last night,” he says heading to the kitchen, readjusting his sweatpants. His voice is even coarser, deeper and it does things to V. “I'll, uh, make us a new batch.”

V sighs, plops back onto the spot he left warm. “Why? Just nuke it.”

“You kiddin' me?”

“It's just coffee.”

He scoffs. “There's a precise science to this, V. Gotta be the right temperature, the right amount of time to let it brew. Gotta take your time with it. C'mere.”

She whines. Couch good. Couch warm. Couch comfy and her body is made of overcooked ramen. Still, she peels herself away from her little nest and trudges her way to his kitchenette, looking over his arm at the odd glass pitcher of a Pre-Collapse artifact. He carefully sticks an old-school thermometer into the water.

“195's the sweet spot. Get it just right.”

It looks like bubbling sludge to her, but his eyes are lit up and intense like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. And then he stops. Stares at it for what seems like forever. Is this seriously it?

“And now?” she asks.

“We wait. Coax it out. Gentle. Easy.”

She can't fight the urge. “Daaaamn,” she laughs, so breathy that it sounds like a moan. The words come out before she can stop herself. “Dirty talk like that, surprised no one's snatched you up yet.” 

When he turns around to lean against the countertop, arms crossed, she almost regrets it. He's just staring at her, and without those glasses, it's almost too much. Can't tell whether he's insulted or upset, but his gaze is fixed, like he's trying to figure her out, so intense. Darker?

Could always be his eye condition.

“Nah. Gonk definitely wants to fuck you,” Johnny chimes in, sitting on the other counter.

V tries to ignore him. He's just trying to get a rise out of her. Vik too, apparently, from this staring contest.

“Not the only thing risin'.”

She's managed to maintain her smug mien, brow arched as she returns the stare-down, but Johnny's wearing on her, breaking her concentration like a toddler wreaking havoc for the sake of attention.

“Trust me. Morning wood usually goes away by now.”

Biting back an exasperated groan, she digs her fingers into her arms.“Why are you staring at his dick, Johnny?”

“Don't gotta. I know. Just look.”

“I am _not_ looking at my friend's dick.”

“Look, V.”

“No.”

_“V.”_

“No, Johnny!”

Thank the universe for the timer going off, as it takes Vik's attention away from her and back to the coffee-plunger thing (a French press, he calls it.) He's a low-tech kind of man; the only thing he has even resembling an implant is his ripperdoc tool.

Over now-stale pan dulce and egg tarts, they talk about the bikes and cars he and his foster siblings stole, the stupid fights they got into with each other and turf fights with other streetkids, about how said fights soon turned into earning eddies, and how his foster mother would sit their bruised asses down and lecture them about how disappointed she was until they gave way to tears, and about his time working as a medic at the boxing club.

“Trauma Team had to come one day. FUBAR situation, this guy’s hemorrhaging everywhere. Technician's name was Rachel, old colleague of mine. Never did see what she saw in me.”

If only he knew.

“Anyway, I was...What? In my 20s? Some young punk. Had the preem idea to launch myself into marriage all while workin' at the boxing ring for ennies an hour. Complete clusterfuck. She was working herself up the ladder, 'n I decided I was done patchin' up. Was gonna be the next heavyweight champion. Thought I had to be some hotshot, make Tricia proud.” He takes a sip from his mug. “Still can't believe we lasted twelve years. Served me the papers right before the finals.”

“Shit.” Her rippling reflection stares back at her from her black coffee as her heart thumps inside her throat. “Well, look at ya now.” Doesn't dare look at him. “For what it's worth, I think your ex truly missed out.”

She isn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when he immediately shrugs it off.

“Eh. I was a gonk. Didn't know shit about shit and thought life owed me everything.”

Black lacquered fingernails tap against the ceramic. “So, uh...Been a bachelor a while, huh?” This is so stupid. She's walked up to relative strangers before and asked them if they wanted to fuck in an alley, and she can't bring herself to ask Vik whether he could see himself going out to dinner with her sometime.

He's quiet again, scrutinizing her expression. Is she that easy to read? She must be in the wrong line of work, then.

“Yeah. Could say that. Nothin' serious.” His eyebrows raise up to punctuate his question. “Why?”

Her mouth and throat go dry. Why, indeed. She shrugs, peers back into the mug as if the answer will pop up like a magic eight ball. “Surprising, 's all.”

There's that silence again. Tense. Uncertain. But she can't look up right now. Slit a corpo's throat, yes. Dig the implants from those scavs with the tip of her knife, easily. But look into Vik's eyes and possibly see rejection? Or worse, disgust? Can't do it. Won't.

“Flattery won't change the fact you've missed all your scans, V.” He's sporting that crooked smirk he wears whenever he's being playful.

But, still. It stings. Stings that he's not interested.

“For fuck's sake, that's not what he said!” Johnny throws his hands up from the kitchen bar next to her. “God, what is it with women and putting words in people's mouths?”

“What is it with you and women, anyway? Y'know, for someone so allegedly good at pleasin' 'em in bed, you’re pretty disappointing in every other way that counts.”

“You and I both know that bed is what counts. Fuckin' joytoy moves his tongue he's erasing a pencil mark. The fixer, though...”

“Not talking to you about this, Johnny.”

“Talkin' to ya again?' Vik asks.

V blinks. “How...?”

“Staring off. Frowning.”

She rubs at her face, barks out a tired laugh. “Yeah, well, he's kind of an asshole.”

“So I've heard. Run out of blockers already? I can run to the clinic, fill you up.”

“Hear that, V? He wants to fill you up.”

Coffee sprays out all over Vik’s shirt.

Horror dawns on her as he wipes the corner of his eye.

“I. Am. So. Sorry.”

Vik reaches for a paper towel to wipe himself off. He flaps his mouth open to talk, shuts it, repeats the process until he manages, “Don’t worry about it. It happens.”

“I, um...I got some already.” Oh, fuck. “The blockers,” she adds in a panic.

“Good, good.”

“Usually take ‘em with a heavy meal, and I got a client to meet at Tom’s in about three hours. Gonna take them then,” she lies.

Vik nods. “Better on the stomach lining.”

“Yeah.” She is never going to live this down. A nervous giggle spasms out of her. “I swear every time I see you, you’re covered in body fluids.”

He shrugs, something pulling the corners of his mouth; as usual, though, he tilts his head down and shuffles his stance. “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.”

Johnny slaps the countertop, jabs a triumphant finger in the air.

Did he just…? V blinks. A shadow of expectation peers through the arch in his eyebrows. It’s a challenge that she’s eager to meet. Does he think she won’t jab back? 

...Shit, he’s right.

V flashes a pair of finger guns at him. “Hey-o!”

He points one back with a wink and a click of his tongue.

Johnny groans something about this being the chance to shoot her shot, that she’d thrown the ball into some spectator’s face instead and that they deserve each other for being this dense. V decides she’s had enough and reaches for the bag she’d left on the island barstool. “On second thought,” she starts aloud. The pills rattle into her hand over the static of all his bitching. “Go to sleep, Johnny,” she tells the parasite in her head


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boxing incident flips Vik's world upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's face it. We're here for the nsfw.

“Pacemaker looks good,” Vik tells Misty and pushes away the monitor set up. “Nothing irregular in the scans.”

She reaches for the small circular bump under her skin. There’s not a single trace of relief on that frown now that she knows she won’t die from AFibbing in her sleep. “It’s getting worse at night. I thought for sure…” The tips of her fingers rub over her sternum.

The only other explanation he can offer is a tricky one. Misty prides herself on being zen, on being the model of balance and mindfulness, often playing the role of counselor to clients, V, and himself. Vik wants to tell her to get out of the shop, get away for a bit, distract herself from all these reminders of Jackie, that no amount of scented oils nor incense nor candles will touch a psychological condition the way medication will; he’s wise enough not to.

“What about…?

He pulls the monitor toward him, scans it again. “There’s a heartbeat.”

Misty sighs. 

“That still what you want?” 

The fabric of her sweater makes a swishing sound as she sits up. “I don’t know yet.”

“How’s your sleep?”

Misty shakes her head.

“Do you need—?”

“No. No, I… Now that I know for sure, I think I got it.”

Nightmares. Understandable that she’s been having them, too. Corpses are an enny a dozen in these parts, but nothing quite prepares you for that empty look in a friend’s eyes, the promise of warmth withheld in their skin, the unyielding sensation of their lifeless wrist in your hands.

If he were a believer in ghosts, he could’ve claimed Jackie is haunting him. Sometimes his silhouette darkens the edges of his field of vision like Jackie’s back at the clinic and poking around in his medical toolbox, and when Vik goes to yell at him, he remembers Jackie’ll never darken his doorstep again, and it hits him like a punch to the solar plexus. There are dreams he has about doing something as mundane like walking down the street, and a body will be there for him to step over: sometimes it’s Jackie’s, sometimes it’s Will’s, or Tricia’s, one of Jackie’s two older brothers or sometimes all three, and, more recently, V’s. There’s nothing particularly grotesque about them other than the usual. It’s the utter commonplaceness of it. He doesn’t startle awake with the sheets stuck to his skin anymore. He doesn’t feel the need to drown it away in liquor nor use the punching bag as a shield (as Misty had implied). And that’s what bothers him most: that it doesn’t bother him. Jackie’s corpse swivels his neck to follow him around in his dream, and Vik just accepts that he’s watching him get milk out of the fridge, or brush his teeth, or perform a routine cyber surgery on Floyd. He doesn’t feel crushing sadness, nor fear, nor anger. 

He feels absolutely nothing.

He awakens to the old water damage spots on his ceiling, and to the radiator that is Floyd curled up by the side of his head. She lifts her head up from her paws, ekes out a purr with a tremble of whiskers, and lies back down. 

Cute little gremlin.

“You’re alright,” he mumbles, hand over the top of her head. “You’re alright.”

  
  


—

It has almost become a tradition since V returned from her “vacation”: coma-inducing Sunday dinners at Doña Lupe’s, the very least V can do after having ghosted for so long. As usual, she’s laid out an entire spread, from hearty pozole to Sinaloan style skirt synth-steak. V had almost forgotten what “real” food is after subsisting on handfuls of Leelou Beans and what Johnny’d referred to as "wish sandwiches" for the past two or so months. Johnny is so fucking old.

“Eat, eat. I can see your ribs, _mija.”_

“Psh, don’t gotta tell me twice.” Her mouth is full, but she shovels in another piece of saucy bean enchilada and she is in heaven.

Misty takes small princess bites out of hers; Doña Lupe must have taken her eating habits into account. It’s a relief they are starting to get along and understand each other. A shame it only took Jackie’s death to make it happen. Can’t go on that train of thought, though, not if she’s going to make it through the night without stressing the poor girl out. 

“You okay?” Doña Lupe asks.

“Mhm. Yeah, ‘s just…Something got stuck.” V reaches for the cold hibiscus tea and takes a gulp.

Keys jingle behind the closed door. They stop for a few seconds and the door opens with Vik holding a tray. V is unsure why the sight of him makes her stomach flutter.

“Sorry I’m late.” He leans over to place a kiss on Doña Lupe’s cheek before disappearing to the kitchen. “Had an emergency come in.”

“Everything okay, Viktor?”

“Just a client at the clinic. Should be fine now.”

Dinner goes on with conversation about the latest brawl at El Coyote, uncomfortable conversations with doped up clients who will remain anonymous, the sharing of family recipes including how Misty’s grandmother used to make pierogi. Inevitably, it turns to Jackie and his shenanigans. Vik tells the story of a young Jackie, a newcomer to the Night City Devils Club, taunting some ill-tempered, juiced-up heavyweight into sparring with him only to get knocked out cold after the first jab. _That’s so like him_. Jackie was an ‘act first, think later’ type of guy and, while it made for good story fodder, it often got his ass kicked or…worse.

Misty helps clear the dishes and Vik brings out the tray lined with small white ramekins. Inside each one is none other than flan.

“Holy shit, did you make these?” V asks.

“Yeah.” He takes off his mitts and places them on the table. “Had some extra time in the morning.”

“Shit. Anyone ever tell you you’re a catch?”

Vik winks at her. “Once or twice. But it don’t hurt to hear it again.”

She would propose to this man right now if she could.

Forks clang against ceramic. Doña Lupe compliments Vik’s baking skills, talks about thinking of expanding El Coyote’s menu and adding a proper kitchen, tries to recruit him. He shakes his head and insists he prefers the solitude in the clinic. V can’t decide whether that’s true, or whether it’s something to which he’s resigned himself out of the sake of self-preservation. Misty informed her some time ago of Vik calling out due to a migraine, so that is another possibility. The lighting and weekly dance and karaoke nights are not conducive to a migraine-friendly environment. Not to mention Vik seems to love his job. Then again, it’s almost like he hides behind it sometimes.

A sharp ringing pierces the inside of her ears. Pressure stabs under her skull, the back of her head, down her neck and starts to constrict her chest. _Not now._ The plastic tablecloth crumples between her fingers. _Please not now._

Fuck. She can’t breathe and there’s something liquid and cold trickling into the top of her lungs, squeezing them into a spasm. 

Her fork clatters to the floor and she muffles a cough behind her fist.

Her heartbeat stutters. This could be it. She could flatline here.

The chair legs shriek against the linoleum floor as she makes her way outside over questions she can’t quite hear over the pain.

“Swallowed wrong,” she coughs out and staggers toward the door. “Need air." 

Cool night air does nothing for the rattling cough. Her hands and shirt are sputtered in red and the world is made up of images struggling to superimpose over the other. The rough brick wall cuts into her palms under her weight. 

A voice speaks, sounds garbled under the malfunction’s deafening screech. 

There’s a glass and a pair of pills held out. V takes them, slides down the wall and sits.

It takes what it seems like hours before the pain subsides. Vik is standing over her, scowling.

“Tell me you’ve made progress on this.”

Upon regaining the ability to think and speak, she says, “Got an appointment with Hanako Arasaka herself.”

Rubber soles scratch against the concrete in pacing steps.

There’s no telling what will happen then. Takemura seems to think she has all the answers, but Johnny insists she’s another corpo-cunt who will say and do anything to secure her position and fill the power vacuum. And when she goes, another Arasaka will take the throne, rinse, repeat. V no longer knows what to believe, only that she’s on her last remaining grains of sand. 

Will anyone even miss her when she’s gone? _Mami_ won’t; she doesn’t even miss V now while she’s still alive. Maybe _Tío_ will, or Elias, though neither of them even lifted a finger to stop her from leaving. There’s Doña Lupe, of course. But the scenario she’s picturing provides her no comfort; what is it going to do to her when she loses another child?

“Want me to take you home?”

She nods and he takes her hand to pull her up, but her knees give out and she bumps into him. Human touch. Will there be human touch wherever she’ll end up—heaven, hell, purgatory? V doesn’t pull away. Vik doesn’t either when she wraps her arms around his waist and stifles her cries into his chest and ruins his shirt with her eyeliner. 

She’s wanted to die in the recent past, but now that the prospect stands before her, she’s scared, she’s terrified, because what if she’s aware but completely alone? What if there’s an afterlife and it’s a blank, white space without anyone to talk to or anything to entertain herself other than be flooded with regrets of past blunders and guilt and the nagging critic in her head telling her this is what she deserves?

“Don’t want her to see. I gotta...I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want her to know.”

He rubs small circles on her back. “Alright. I’ll tell her I found a small neurovirus, sort you out at the clinic.”

“Don’t want me to know what?”

Doña Lupe stands at the door’s threshold.

V sighs, tries to swallow back the dread rising from the pit of her stomach and pooling in her chest.

Her voice heightens when she catches the blood on her shirt. “What are you hiding?” When neither of them responds, she proceeds. “Someone tell me what is going on right now.”

Misty follows behind her, reaches out to stop her from confronting V, but pulls her hand back as if it had been singed. Once Doña Lupe latches on to something, she will not let go.

V gulps.

“I’m, uh...I’m dying.”

Doña Lupe _tsks_ as if V had just made a bad joke, shakes her head. “No.” Misty hugs her arm to her chest. Viktor scratches his temple. The older woman’s face droops as the realization hits her. _“No bromees así.”_

“Wish I was kidding.” 

It’s difficult to watch the span of emotions scrolling across her face all at once, struggling for control. 

“Since when?”

“Since Jackie... Since Konpeki.”

A choked whimper stumbles out of Doña Lupe and her hand slaps against her own mouth. “You...Why didn’t you tell me?” There is no response. Because this reaction is exactly why. Despite what she wants to believe, V is going to die; yet. there is a glimmer of hope she doesn’t want to let go of, one she’d been anticipating of reaching before Doña Lupe found out. “And you two... Did you know? From the start? Were you hiding this from me?”

“Lupe...” Vik begins.

“No, don’t you start!” She’s shaking, struggling to keep her rage behind pursed lips. _“_ _¿_ _Y tú, gringa?”_

“Don’t bring Misty into this, she—”

Lupe cuts her off. _“Lárguense.”_

Leave. She’s kicking them out. The woman who’d housed and fed her, who’d tolerated her and Jackie’s drunken binges and walking into the house past midnight, told her story after story about life in Mexicali, and bonded with her over having to get used to Night City had finally had enough and washing her hands clean of her. 

She can hear Vik in the background trying to calm Lupe down. A downcast Misty starts making her way to the car. Lupe is in hysterics. There’s a cinder block weighing down on V’s chest, but it isn’t the relic again; it’s something else and it’s making her hands and arms and face numb and she’s floating away and her head spins and everything is loud and bright and happening so fast and it’s not really happening to her and she’s just watching—

“V, breathe,” Misty says from the backseat. “I need you to breathe.” 

But her chest burns and fights on every inhalation, and her sinuses are too swollen and stuffy for her to breathe in the first place. 

“Easy. Just keep breathing. Nice and slow.”

The glass window is cold against her temple. She shuts her eyes and focuses on it, pretending it’ll spread down her neck and cool off her overclocked systems. When had she gotten in her car? The cyber pitbull bobblehead on the dashboard wobbles about with every hint of a pothole. Who’s driving? She’s not driving.

Vik is concentrating on the road. Every streetlight they pass reveals how weary he is.

“What about your car?”

“Took a cab. Didn’t wanna spend half an hour looking for parking in The Glen.”

Night City really is beautiful when viewed from a bubble, isn’t it? She’d really thought she’d make it here in the city of dreams, intended to wring it dry of eddies, and use the cash to buy seven hypercars, a penthouse and a summerhouse, keep her refrigerator stocked with real food—none of that synthetic stuff, nor those prepackaged meals. The real shit—and buy all the friends money and fame can buy. A lot of good that got her.

It’s part of the journey Misty and that doll from Clouds had spoken about, she supposes. Had she not taken this path, she wouldn’t have met her nor Mama Welles. Nor Vik.

They pull up to her megabuilding and the brakes squeal. Time to get those pads replaced.

“Take the car,” she says, opening the car door. “Don’t like the idea of either of you walking alone in the dark.”

“Live three blocks down," Vik says. "We'll be fine.”

Chances are, they will be. But she can’t help but project a scenario where there’s a shootout and they're in the way and a bullet hits him or Misty or both and she’s not there to help them.

She squeezes his hand over the steering wheel. “Please do this for me? So I can sleep?”

He sighs.

“Fine. But, sleep, alright?”

“I will. I will,” she lies.

  
  
  


—

  
  
  


Having a set expiration date on life sheds a different perspective on V's life, hones in on the yawning voids threatening to suck her in and tear her asunder, sharpens the muddied hues at the corners of her tunnel vision into glaring neons signs pointing her toward all the things she's been missing out on in the name of fame and a pocketful of dirty eddies. And among the biggest signs, hanging midair like a beacon in the dark is none other than Vik. Goddammit, he's on her mind again and constantly, nearly as invasive as the cancerous malware known as Johnny Silverhand, but oh-so much more welcome.

“All done,” he says, cutting the thread from the stitches on her arm she’d had to get due to another gig gone tits up. He washes up and goes back to his desk, laser focused on the fight on TV. He has to know it's the same one, over and over again. No amount of replays would change the outcome, so what's his deal? V leans against the edge of his desk curious as to what he could be thinking, arms folded, before she realizes she's taking on yet another Johnny characteristic.

But what to do with her hands now?

She settles for gripping the edges, short nails digging into the particle board.

_He's right there. All you have to do is talk._

“Uh, so how 'bout a round?” she asks with a tight voice. Then she clarifies, “You 'n me. Could use some work on my hand-to-hand.”

All she gets is the unsatisfying flicker of a gaze. “Think you should focus on healing a little first.”

“C'mon. Scared I'll lay ya out like ol’ Jackie?” Heavy on the _lay._

This time, she receives a throaty huff. “Don't doubt ya can, kid. But don't like redoing my work. 'Sides, you got a couple advantages over me.”

“Being?”

If the awful screech from his chair means anything, it needed some oil, STAT. That, and he likes spinning around on it a little too much, even if it's just for dramatic effect. “Youth, for one. Agility.” He motioned vaguely at his temple. “Coupl'a fancy combat implants. I could keep goin'.”

V sucks at her teeth. “Aaa, I'm half your size and injured. Plus I'm dyin', remember? _Dále, chico.”_ A good-natured smack to the deltoid gets his attention, another memory to treasure in solitude, if only to recall how deliciously solid the muscle there was.

He's quick in the ring, powerful and surprisingly agile for his size; to the untrained eye, one would never think he ever retired from boxing. But it's how he favors his left leg, that split-second hesitation, that has her pulling a right hook. Vik blocks it and hits her with an uppercut, as if he knew she'd take advantage of that weakness. That skill, she guesses, comes not from natural ability but from years of experience, the same experience that backs her into a corner.

“Can't let ‘em corner ya, kid,” he manages through heavy breaths, “Keep your distance.”

So close, she can smell the harsh, acrid scent of his aftershave through their combined sweat, can almost see how wide his pupils are against their jade and gold setting, the pulse thrumming through the veins corded around his neck. Closer wouldn't be half bad, in her opinion. A hooked leg behind his knee topples him down and her with him, arms and legs caging his large frame beneath him as she'd not allowed herself to fantasize about, and _God_ is this so much better than any daydream could have been. His lips are parted in the slightest form of surprise, barrel chest heaving in tandem with hers. And she has him. She finally has him. Not in the permanent sense she will never admit to wanting, but for this moment where time was a mere construct, staring into his eyes, absorbing the heat from his body, almost sharing a dizzying breath.

Just as a triumphant grin begins to dawn across her mouth, her world flips and it is she who stares up in awe. The harsh fluorescent lights catch on the beads of perspiration across his brow and follow a stray droplet to the floor beside her. The tiny pendant on his necklace swings near his clavicle. She’d never realized it was a boxing glove before until now. Far too busy wondering how sensitive he is there and whether he would groan if he let her run her lips and teeth over his collarbones. Would he be rough, all growls and passion and teeth at her lips if he kissed her? Or would he be soft and gentle, taking his time until she melted in his arms? 

When he moves to get up, panic takes over. Too little. Too soon. Not ready to have him leave and she could die tomorrow for all she knows and she _has_ to know, needs to tell him at the very least, but there are no words, only her lips against his.

He doesn't move.

He doesn’t kiss her back.

What in the hell has she done? The blood ebbs from her face only to flow back in like a rogue wave. 

“Vik...I’m sorry. I didn’t…” Didn’t what? Mean to? Yes, she did. She didn't misread him, nor bump into him like some scene from a romance BD; she deliberately, purposefully and intentionally kissed this man.

He stands, clears his throat, and helps her up.

“Sorry for what, kid?” Despite the humor in his voice, it cuts deeply. He’s playing it off as if this was some adrenaline-induced mistake. Then again, what else does she expect him to do? Ask her to pour out her feelings and then calmly explain why he can’t see her as anything other than a friend or someone to mentor? 

The words fumble over her tongue with the grace of a first-timer with the clasps of their girlfriend’s bra.

“Listen, I wanna lock up soon. Go home and rest.” 

_The latest fuckery in Baby Benítez’ long line of boneheaded moves, everybody._

“Yeah. Sure… Uh... See ya ‘round.”

  
  


—

  
  


Vik’s eyelids are sandpaper behind every blink. Ever since that night, sleep plays a cat-and-mouse game with him—the moment he thinks he’s sunken his claws into it, it slips through his fingers. 

Adrenaline makes people do stupid things; he’s gone a little too far before during certain fights: kept punching an opponent long after the bell rang or said things he didn’t completely mean during an argument. Chalking that kiss up solely to the heat of the moment seems disingenuous, however. Jackie’d alluded to V’s interest some time ago and Misty has talked about it multiple times, even if she thinks such things go over his head. In fact, she’d alluded to it that night, minutes before he and V’d sat on the stairs and he’d nearly kissed her.

But now that he knows for sure…

Pinned underneath him, covered in a sheen of sweat, chest heaving—he’s given far too much thought to the things he could have done to keep her that way, returned the kiss until there was nothing between them but the perspiration dripping down their bodies. Vivid fantasies play in his mind late at night when he’s all alone in the back of the clinic or in the solitude of his apartment, where V stands before him and peels off her top and lets him touch her pretty little tits, and they’re so fucking soft and fit perfectly in his palms and in his mouth. Fantasies where she drops to her knees and does to him what he’s doing to himself, makes it even better with the wet heat of her mouth and a caress of her tongue. Fantasies where he’s got her bent over his car and driving himself so deep into her she can’t remember anything but his name.

Vik spills into his hand with a silent shudder. 

He’s the worst.

V's dying and she’s acting out of desperation, holding onto whatever is familiar and comforting. The kiss had been a mistake, simple as that. The sooner he drills that into this thick skull of his, the better for everyone. 

Back at the clinic, Misty lounges on his couch reading a magazine. He tries to forget the things he’s done there, tries to focus on the fight happening on the screen.

“Something happen with V?”

Damn her extrasensory perception.

“Hm?”

“She usually comes in for guided meditation every three days.” The tip of her boot pokes from around the corner of the screen as she swivels her ankle to and fro. “But it’s like she’s avoiding the clinic.”

Vik grunts noncommittally. V’s the type to come and go. Eventually, she’ll wander back in, asking for food and a lap to curl over. Or she’ll flatline in a back alley somewhere and the last thing she will remember him saying is telling her to leave so that he could sequester himself in the clinic, tug one out and regain his wits. 

“You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“About what?”

_“Vik.”_

“Look, if V hasn’t told you, then maybe she doesn’t want you to know.”

The couch creaks and a mass of fluffy blonde hair peeks from the corner. “Who said she didn’t tell me?”

The joint of his jaw pops. “Well, then, there you go.”

He’s successfully dodged her interrogation, seeing as she doesn’t offer a response. Rhino slams her killer right hook against her opponent’s face. Vik winces. It isn’t a fair fight being pitted against someone so chipped and juiced-up. But, man does he want to see Lee flip this and beat her ass.

“I told her to ring you.”

“Who?”

“President Myers.”

_“What?”_

_“V,_ you gonk. Thinks you won’t want to talk to her. I told her that isn’t the case.” She leans forward. “Right?”

“Why would she think that?”

“I don’t know, Viktor. Perhaps it’s whatever made her stumble out of my shop last week before you closed up shop early.”

Between Misty, Lupe and Mercedes, he’s sure to be neck-deep in nagging for the rest of his life.

“Whatever happened, you two need to fix it.” She plops back down on the couch and goes back to her magazine. “You’re bringing in bad energy.”

Against his better judgment, he could tell her to mind her own business, that the problem will sort itself out on its own once emotions cool off. But that would be acknowledging that there is a problem to begin with. He and V are fine. He’s not avoiding her and V is busy with merc work and sorting whatever feelings she had about this. 

The fight’s still on, but he can’t tell who is who, nor whom he’s rooting for, nor which round they’re on. 

What did V tell Misty, exactly?

It’s such a blur to him. One moment they’re sparring and he’s coaching her on keeping her arms up, and the next they’re on the floor like a pair of teenagers in the back of a Thorton.

Has she talked to her before about how she feels about him? The thought of it curls the edges of his mouth.

An hour later, there are still no clients. Another flick is playing, a horror film with some nondescript name. There is no artistry to it—it’s all artificial blood and guts and gore. It’s reminiscent of an impulse fuck who leaves without so much as a kiss goodbye: serves its purpose, but not satisfying.

His holo chirps.

**[ V | 7:31 pm ]**

_can we talk?_

_I don’t know. Can we,_ is what he wants to respond because humor is better than the surge of anxiety this is causing, than the idea of making V cry, or holding on to false hope. 

Years ago the dreaded 'Can we talk?' would have sent him up a wall like Floyd when she stands too close to him while he's washing dishes and accidentally splashes her with drops of dishwater.

Vik takes a deep breath until his ribs cannot expand anymore.

**[ Me | 7:45 pm ]**

_Sure, when?_

**[ V | 7:46 pm ]**

_an hour_

**[ 7:46 pm ]**

_?_

**[ 7:46 pm]**

_how do you like your steak?_

**[ Me | 7:47 ]**

_Rare_

It's done. They'll fix this, clear up any misunderstandings, and go back to how things were before they crossed the unspoken line between them. Everything'll be the same as before and he'll go back to watching over her and she’ll fuck off somewhere again with somebody…

Bullshit. Not even he believes that.

It’s only been fifteen minutes, but it feels like six underwater. The clinic is spotless, thanks to wiping the already-sterile surfaces down for the fourth time today. He’s caught up on the latest screamsheets. There’s nothing on TV. There exists the option of taking his nerves out on the punching bag or the iron, but if V were to walk in on that… As good as it makes him feel to have an attractive young woman ogle him, he doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea. 

Maybe he does.

Vik hasn’t decided.

The last person he’d dated had been his age. It’d been simple enough: she’d already had kids, there’d been no generational awkwardness, and they’d simply been along for the ride. Until she’d asked him to move to Scotland with her to be close to her newborn grandson. Vik hadn’t been ready to leave Night City; he’d never thought about it. He’d never thought about becoming a grandfather, either.

V hadn’t asked him to be her input. If anything, this is a passing curiosity and a cry for help in her time of need; he’ll cave in, they’ll fuck hot and heavy on the couch, and she’ll disappear again.

“It’s me,” V calls out from the gate. To his discomposure, she’s got on a pair of jean shorts that ride high and loose on her thighs; if she were to turn around, he’d bet his Quadra he’d be able to see that ass of her hanging out.

“Hey, V. Grab a seat.”

It’s just an outfit. This should not be making him this jittery.

A white, grease-stained bag with the Pepper & Spice logo swings from her hand. Last time he’d been there had been for Mercedes’ graduation; being there with Rachel’d put a damper on this enthusiasm. 

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks.

Last night. This morning, if protein shakes count. He’s been a little...preoccupied. “You?” 

The paper bag crumples as she rummages through it. Out comes a crinkled aluminum take-out tin. 

“Whaddya think I’m doing now?” 

As good as the jerk-flavored steak is, it does nothing to distract from the way her soft-yet-defined thighs splay over the seat. She’s got a list of crossed-off cities tattooed down her right quad, sitting over a ring of barbed wire around her thigh like a violent little garter. The silvery little lines sprawl over her outer legs and faint dimples on the insides hint at softness. Wouldn’t mind if they were wrapped around his head for a while.

“Look...I’m sorry about the other day,” she starts. “I misunderstood, and I...Well, it was stupid, what I did. So, consider this my peace offering.”

A peace offering. “For what?”

She cringes. “You know. For the…” She sets down her tin, hangs her head. “Jesus, Vik. Just say you don’t want me that way already so I can move on.”

Move on from...So, she _did_ mean to kiss him. Oh, God. It was on purpose and Vik doesn’t know which compartment to stash this information.

“That’s not...It’s complicated.”

“Can’t be more complicated than a terrorist possessing my brain.” She leans back, lets her body sink into the folding chair. Those goddamned shorts are hiking up on her hips. They may as well be underwear. Is she wearing underwear? She’s picking at her nails, but she’s going to notice eventually.

Their eyes meet.

Wouldn’t be the first time he’s entertained someone’s fetishes or daddy issues. Around his fortieth, he met some young thing at the Grand Imperial Mall while at a car show—a corpo’s kid in his early twenties; Vik was still reeling from the divorce and the guy was looking for some time to kill with ‘someone real,’ as he’d put it. Lasted two weeks, before the guy got fed up with Vik’s nagging. Vik decided then he was officially done with casual sex.

  
  
  


“If this is about satisfying some curiosity of yours...” He can’t read the expression on her face. “My place is down the street.”

“No!” She rubs at her eyes. “I mean, yes...But no.”

“Then I don’t follow.”

There’s a wordless plea written in a language he doesn’t understand. Her nose wrinkles up, and she looks down, away from him.

“I should go.”

She gets up, reaches for the hoodie she’d laid over the backrest. 

He grabs her wrist.

“Wait.” V doesn’t turn to look at him. It’s better this way that she can’t see his indecision and abject fear. What is it that terrifies him so much about being with her, even if it is for one night? “Last thing I want to do is take advantage of your situation.”

This time she gives him a wary look. Her hips swivel toward him, remind him of those little shorts she’s wearing, walk her close to him where she’s between his legs and all it would take is the last of his self-control snapping for him to untuck her shirt and run his mouth over the plane of her belly.

“Who says I don’t want you to?”

Who starts it first is debatable, but her hands are in his hair and he’s grabbing her ass, and her tongue tastes like allspice and citrus. It’s just as soft and lovely as he’d imagined it. She moans when his fingers start slipping under the hem of her shorts; he joins her when they find nothing but the straps he recognizes as a thong, and the image goes straight to his dick. 

They part for the far too long for the briefest of seconds, and her legs start to straddle his hips as she sits on his lap and he’s finally going to get that sweet friction he’s so desperately craving and—

The chair gives out under them and tilts over.

His back and his head and his ass hurt. Shit, is he bleeding?

V’s landed on all fours. Can’t be good for her knees.

She snorts, sits back on her legs and shakes in a full-body cackle.

“Yeah, real funny,” he sighs. This is going to smart in the morning.

“C’mon, Vik...It’s funny!” Youth twinkles in her eyes, something carefree and innocent peeking through all the blood and gore and loneliness she’s buried herself in for so long. She’s beautiful.

He manages to stand first, helps her up. “Glad you had a good time, then.”

“What, like you didn’t?”

“Well, my ass doesn’t usually end up this sore.”

She puckers her lips, but he knows he’s walked right into that one. “Then you haven’t been doing it right.”

Serves him right.

Her hands go back to his face, palms scratching over his jaw. He probably has some five o’clock shadow going on.

This is a line they’ve consciously chosen to cross. Things are irreparably different, for better or worse. Better they stop now before winding up tangled in each other, because no matter how much they try to convince themselves otherwise, things can never go back to what they were. Sex can and will only complicate that.

He takes her wrists, holds them low between the space separating him from her.

“Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“As opposed to now?”

He holds out the sauce stain on his shirt. “I’d like to discuss this with clean clothes, at least.” _And with blood circulating through my brain again._

V apologizes through a fit of giggles. They clean up the spilled food from the floor, and he walks her out of the clinic into the alley. Her hand is swinging in his. Makes him feel young again.

“Tom’s. Eleven tomorrow.”

V peers up at him, biting her lower lip.

“We’ll talk about it when we’re rested up.”

She takes a moment to clutch the jacket around her. “Tomorrow at eleven,” she repeats. Her lips brush against his cheek. Not the platonic kiss she tends to give Misty and Lupe, but a peck hearkening back to childhood moments spent whispering secrets to another on a stoop, or climbing in through windows or sneaking behind abandoned bleachers. 

“G’night, Vik.”

She turns and leaves him with the words in still his mouth, and the sight of her ass swaying away in those shorts.

Vik inhales deeply. He needs a cold shower.

“G’night, V.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V and Vik have another uncomfortable conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkwardness, fluff, angst at the oil fields, more fluff, and more angst.
> 
> Title is on the nose. Sue me.

“So the guy's screaming his head off, holding his crotch, right? Like, I don't even know where this gonk got that implant, but that shit sounds like it's shredding him from the inside. And I'm over here thinking, _Holy shit, if this thing explodes, how the fuck am I gonna get his dick bits off the seats?”_

Vik's laughter puffs out of his nostrils. “Shoulda called Trauma Team.”

“But I felt so bad! The man was howling and I was there, so... And at one point, these little schoolkids start crossing the street, a whole buncha them and, I shit you not, he goes, _‘Just mow 'em down! Just mow ‘em down!”_

“I thought they took the XCV/19 off the market.”

“They did! Have you gotten a look at one of those? I'm surprised they even made it onto the shelves.”

“Well, you know corpos and chrome-heads.” He takes a bite out of his burger, dabs a napkin neatly against the corner of his mouth. “Got their own little symbiotic ecosystem.”

He takes another bite.

So does she.

He chews quietly, sight wandering around Tom's like it's the first time he's been here.

So does she.

A straw rattles with the last droplets of Spunky Munky and the excuse of being too occupied to talk about why they're _really_ here. He's going to reject her. He's going to reject her and it's going to ruin what they have, the trust they've built over the past year, and replace it with a mile-thick, cold concrete wall. Kissing him again was a mistake, crossing a boundary she shouldn't have never even thought about considering. This meeting is another mistake.

To her surprise, he speaks first.

“What exactly do you want from this?”

“This?”

He sinks his face into his hands, elbows on the table. _“V,”_ he groans, exasperated.

Oh. _This._

“Try to keep up,” Johnny says from the booth behind Vik. “The good doctor looks like he's gonna have an aneurysm.”

“Yeah, real funny,” she says to the ghost in her head, before addressing Vik. “I... I really don't know.”

That does nothing to prevent his frown from deepening.

“I didn't honestly think I'd get this far.” A nervous laugh to cover the icy vise grip in her chest. “You—you mean so much to me.” She picks up her cup of Tiancha, sucks on the straw only to find she's already downed all of it and now she has nothing to do with her hands or anything to pretend she's not dying on the inside and that her train of thought isn't a wreck of derailed burning carriages and wagons slamming into each other.

The plastic diner booth growls when he stands, and the panic of him walking away, from this, from her, makes her want to shout after him. Until he takes both of their cups.

“Lemme give you a bit of advice, V,” Johnny says, now in Vik's place in the booth.

“Please don't.”

“This is just as hard on him as it is on you. Look at him. He's shitting in his big, puffy adult diapers.”

“Johnny? _Please?_ Can you not?”

He drums his hands over the table, leans forward. “I'm sayin', try to mellow the fuck out. Startin' this was your idea. Own it. Actin' like a fawning schoolgirl creamin' her panties is just makin' the old man feel worse.”

V scrubs a palm over her face. Fuck what it'll probably do to her gold eyeshadow.

A full styrofoam cup of Tiancha Kumquat lowers with a soft tap onto the surface before her, and Vik replaces Johnny when the latter glitches away.

“Givin' ya a hard time again?” he asks and takes a sip of his drink.

She nods, head in her hands.

Where was she?

Oh, right.

_God. Here we go._

“Ok, so...I've, uh... I've had a crush on you for a while.” There may as well be a brim over her forehead because she cannot bear to look at him right now. “I think I figured it out at Jackie's party. 'Member? We had to drag his giant ass to the car.”

The rumble of his laughter melts away some of the coiled tension in her muscles.

“Never did get the smell out of my car.”

“Yeah, I have a hard time with tamales now. Those were my favorite, too.”

He laughs again. And now he's looking at her. Really looking at her. There's no disgust. There's something else she can't quite translate, but at the very least he isn't disgusted.

“We were on the steps for hours, talking the rest of the night...” The way he opened up to her, about his stint with Trauma Team. The first time she'd gotten a proper look at his eyes and saw the best part of her childhood reflected in them, a breath of fresh clean air and carefree summers. The way he looked at her like he'd kiss her at any moment. The tingle of his cheek against hers and the unabashed surprise on his face. “That was it for me. Couldn't stop thinking about you.”

She catches him nodding from beneath her lashes, though when she steels herself to make eye contact, he's staring down at his soft drink lid as if it were the most interesting thing in the room. His lips part, then press back together, corners twitching in tandem with his eyebrows. An expression so indiscernible, with the only clue being the tips of his ears radiating red heat in contrast to his pale skin.

“Gotta say...I'm pretty damn flattered,” he says, swirling his cup around idly.

“Yeah?”

He reaches up, scratches the area near the thinning patch on the back of his head. “But, in situations like these,” he starts, then tapers off, eyes darting across the ceiling. “Sometimes...”

“You think it's because I'm dying,” she states, rather than asks. “Because you're the one patching me up.”

His silence is enough to answer.

“Vik... I've been tryin' to find somethin', _anything_ to make me forget for two seconds that I'm gonna die. And I've got nothin'.” Her bitten nails dig into the table's plastic border guard. “Everything's so clear when I'm with you. Simple. And it’s not just that, either...I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

He grunts. “Age difference don't bother you?”

V blinks. “No. Uh, I mean, I never really thought about it. Why? Does it bother you?”

He lifts his glasses, rubs at the bridge of his nose, exhales deeply. “I, uh, got a kid. Just turned 21.”

Oh.

Shit.

Okay.

She supposes with his previous marriage, it stands to reason he could have a child.

“What're they like?”

A tinge of pride tinges what she's come to know as his self-deprecating smirk. “Smart. She's got a great head on her shoulders. Really knows what she wants, y'know?” He traces a drop of condensation with his thumb down the length of the cup in his hand. “Studying to be a surgeon. She's in her third year already.”

She's never seen him look his age. Not until now, a pensive weight to his countenance straddling the line between fondness and regret. “What's her name?”

“Mercedes.”

“Mercedes,” she echoes. _Must be the graduate from the still._ She wonders if she takes after him and does that adorable dog-like head tilt thing he does whenever he's actively listening. 

But, she's 21.

A little under 7 years younger.

No wonder.

“Is that what's bothering you?”

Plastic black frames slip back down into their original place and he rubs the back of his neck before finally admitting with a sigh, “Yeah, it bothers me.”

Disappointment and embarrassment spread down her stomach and rise over her neck and face, somehow hot and cold simultaneously. She should have thought about it, how it would make him feel. But her words are already free, in the air, and it's too late to take it back. Suddenly she can't decide what's worse: being rejected or making Vik feel this awkward.

“Well, then, let's drop it.” She drifts her hand over his, hyper-aware of the fact he might pull away, and decides to give it a firm squeeze, friendly. Purely platonic. “As long as you don't mind me feeling this way, I'm okay with things as they are.” As they _were,_ more like, and it's a lie not even she believes. So, she adds a truth. “I just don't wanna lose you. You're, like, my best friend.”

“Not what I meant.” Slumping back into the chair, then leaning forward and bracing himself on the table... He hasn't stopped squirming. “I, uh, need a sec.” His coarse hair makes a soft, crisp sound when he runs his fingers through it. Left hand drops to his side, fetches a cigarette, holds it to his mouth while the other lights it. Right hand lowers and his thumb starts tapping on the dried soda-sticky table.

“You're killin' me, Vik.”

He drops his head between his hands, huffs. “Feel like I usually got something to say, but damn... I got nothin'.” The caress of calloused fingers against her forearm, though, dampens the burning impulse to leave whatever circle of hellish humiliation this is; they stop at her wrist, cradle her hand and send her rising to heaven. If this is all he would give her, she would take it, cherish it, hold on to and revisit it until her final breath. “I've thought about it before. You. Time you worked on the Quadra?” He quirks the side of his mouth in that smirk that makes her pulse race. “Hard not to stare.”

A giddy little thrill rushes through her body and curls at the edges of her mouth. “And here I thought you didn't notice.”

“You kidding me? I felt like some kind of...I dunno.”

V bites her lip. “Wouldn't mind seeing your freak side more often, then. Glad to know that top wasn't sacrificed in vain.”

“ _Jesus,_ _V,”_ he whispers.

Vik often has this cocksure swagger to him: never domineering, but he commands attention with his presence alone while somehow managing to put those around him at ease—a masterful balance which a lesser man would fail to achieve. Seeing him like this, however—flustered out of his element—is a rare treat, one she’s eating up.

“And now?”

He rubs at his nose, scrubs at his chin, but his amused little smirk peeks through his fingers.

“Well, guess I don't have to feel guilty for staring at your ass anymore.”

She drops her head back and cackles. “Shit, I was hoping you'd notice.”

A cool, dry hand envelops hers, thumb tracing her knuckles with a feathery touch. His nails are always so neat: cuticles pushed back and trimmed, free edge smoothed out and even, polished in some transparent pearly lacquer. With all the sensitive shit he touches, it's no wonder he's so meticulous about them.

“Listen... We should...You're, uh...” His lips brush against her knuckles. She no longer cares that he's probably doing it to distract her from how awkward this is for him. “You mean a lot to me… Now, not sayin' no. I'm sayin' let's put a pin on this. Focus on getting that _thing_ out of your head. And then...Then, we can focus...”

“Focus on what?”

Vik shrugs. “...Us.”

Once they finish up at the diner, he asks her to follow him on a walk, to which she readily agrees. Now that it’s all out in the open, there is little else to regret other than not having told him sooner. Would he have agreed to date her back then? They could’ve been doing this instead of dancing around each other for so long. Maybe she wouldn’t have taken on Konpeki and could’ve spent the rest of her life just like this…

The side of his hand brushes against hers as they walk. 

She’s had his hands on her enough that she can map out the callouses in his hand with machine-like precision. Touching that hand now, however…

“Hey, Vik? Can I…?”

He traces her gaze down to their hands and snorts.

A cold draft hits as the oversized sleeve of her jacket lifts, only to feel the rough of his fingers. His hand is rough and dry, but oh-so warm and… V could cry. It’s not the primal makeout session they’d had before, nor is it sex, nor is it the whispers of undying affection she craves like oxygen, but...It’ll be enough when the inevitable comes to pass.

“Never asked, but you gotta tell me the story about that name of yours.”

Her name.

Their first meeting. The medical scans. Of course, he would know, would have seen it.

“You mean…?” It’s a ridiculous story rife with things she’d rather forget, things she’d left behind. 

“Don’t gotta tell me.”

“...No, it’s fine. It’s fine, really.” It isn’t completely fine.

Overworked and underpaid people are starting to stream in and cluster around booths in the market for the lunchtime rush. The sweet-tangy scent of grilled peppers slices through the stale stench of urine and spilled beer. Notes strummed through wrong pickups waft over the drone of mindless chitchat, arguments, and desperation. 

Might as well use the cloak of relative anonymity as a confession. God knows when the last time she’ll get to talk like this will be.

“I was a...My family visited Night City some years ago when my mother was 15 or 16 or something. Some maglev repair shit, I guess. Anyway, she was tired of nomad life or some shit, ran off for a couple of days.” There’s a bitter taste in her mouth. Must be reflux. “Then I guess she… _Ay, puñeta_ , what’s the word again? It’s not coming to me.”

She snaps her fingers. 

“Whatever. She changed her mind, is what I’m trying to say. But when she left Night City...Well, I suppose I’m continuing family tradition in coming out of here with a parasite.”

“Ah.”

“By the time she found out, clan ripperdocs wouldn’t do anything about it. Tried all sorts of shit, though: 'dorphs, lace, booze. You name it.” Not that _mami_ would never let her forget that. “When I was born, _mami_ was too busy getting skezzed. Never got around to registering me.”

A lull swings between them.

“They wind up calling you that around camp?”

V bites the inside of her cheek.

“...Verónica.”

“Hm?”

“My uncle started calling me Verónica. He’s... _was_ like a father to me. You know, before I decided to leave. Never felt like a Verónica, though. Verónicas are…” Decidedly feminine, sexy, the femme fatales of classic cinema and _telenovelas_. “My friends used to call me Ronnie. I thought that suited me better.”

“And it doesn’t now?”

“Eh. I dunno anymore. V’s simple. Could be anyone, y’know? Easy to spell and say in a lot of languages. Lets me hide until I’m ready to reveal myself.” She bumps her shoulder against him. “Why? You tryna figure out what to call me on our next date?”

“Well, depending on the circumstances, knowing which name to say aloud might be useful.”

The smirk from behind his tinted glasses makes her heart leap in her chest.

“Eyyy! Look at _you!”_ she laughs and gives him a playful shove. “Mr. Slick.”

“Heh. Glad to know I still got it, kid.”

—

  
  


V should’ve known better than to trust Johnny. Rogue warned her he was a soul-sucking exploiter, a manipulative liar, someone whose emotional toxicity manages to rival the sickly green oil fields where Arasaka dumped his body. And yet, the dullness, the absence of fire in his eyes as he stands over his own grave twists at the sharp splinter in her heart, the same one he’d alluded to at the Pistis Sophia back when she’d foolishly embraced him as her brother-in-arms. It’s the same pain she’d felt when she’d woken up in her own bed after the coma, realizing she’d been left in a landfill like last week’s trash because that’s all she has ever been. 

What did he expect? A headstone? A flag and flowers, pillar candles with pictures of saints, stuffed animals long-gone moldy? Those are reserved for people who are loved and missed, not for the likes of rejects like them.

“Nah. I...I dunno.” Johnny’s voice wavers, a near imperceptible crack when he says, “A marker? Something. Anything.”

A metallic taste coats her tongue over the almond-scented miasma of radioactivity. She decides it is to blame for the burning in her eyes.

What had Johnny been like before the war, before bitterness permeated his every muscle, every bone, every thought, and every breath? What had he been like before hatred, anger, and disdain became the limited span of his emotions? She swears she caught a glimpse of a young Johnny at the roller coaster in Pacifica when they’d hollered and whooped and screamed and laughed until they had a heavy bladder and tears in their eyes.

He’d been that man once, that kid; that part of him is still hidden there under the tons of rubble and broken dreams—she’s convinced of it.

V takes the pocketknife out of her boot and takes the blade to the sheet of tin covering his final resting place. If anyone deserves to be remembered, it’s the boy before the war with stars in his eyes, eager to do anything to make things, _the world_ better; it’s the man who dragged himself through the desert and began anew with just a pair of dog tags around his neck; it’s the part of him that told Kerry and those groupies they could do so much better, the part that moved heaven and hell to try to save Alt and stormed into Arasaka Tower despite the fear churning in the pit of his stomach and confronted his enemies despite the knowledge he might not have made it out alive.

“You always have that birthmark?” Johnny asks.

She glances down at the small irregular patch of darker skin—lovingly termed as a “shitstain” by her cousin Elias—on her wrist, then at Johnny. What the hell does he think a birthmark is?

“Nope. Only wear it on special occasions.”

Curls and crumbs of aluminum shavings gather at each scrape and upstroke of the blade. If no one else will mourn him, then this is the least she can do.

**R.J.L. -2023**

“C’mon. Do you really want ‘Baby’ on your tombstone?”

No. But it is who she is, she figures. She’ll be lucky if anyone decides to remember her at all, much more so if she gets a marker at the columbarium.

She rolls her eyes and goes to scratch off all her wrist-numbing work but Johnny grabs her arm.

“No, leave it.” There are no dark shades for him to hide behind, not that they’d be able to hide how his throat is swallowing back a river of emotions. “Let’s say it was my real grave...What would you write?”

“Yeah, I’m not engraving all of that.”

“Don’t gotta. Just...tell me.”

The first things that trickle in are not flattering to his memory. _Here lies Robert John Linder, AKA Johnny Silverhand, the man who took over my brain, my liver, my life and put my dying body through an incendiary car crash all while finger-blasting a stranger._

Johnny flinches. He heard that.

Despite all his failings, he’s human (or had been, at least); without him, she would have still been rotting alongside maggot-infested takeout and rusted scrap metal.

“The guy who saved my life,” she says.

There’s a twinge, a plucked cord and it’s unclear which one of them it came from or whether it’s the bleed.

Johnny stands up, rakes his fingers through greasy, petroleum-black hair, and starts pacing.

“V...You don’t know how much I want that to be true.” He stops to fiddle around with his aviators. He admits to being a fuck-up, a user, his notorious, selfish knack for manipulation. “But, I’ve managed one thing for now. Not to fuck this up, what we have.”

“Oh, _fuck you!_ You fucked that up, too! I’m fucking dying here and you did absolutely everything in your power to speed that up, when you promised, you fucking _promised_ me—” Something cold drips out of her nose and she wipes at it. At least it isn’t blood, though bleeding would be better than crying in front of Johnny Silverhand like another one of his groupies the morning after. “How the fuck am I supposed to trust you now? I can’t! I can’t.”

His boots smack over the thick mud, changing his weight from the left leg to the right. He clears his throat.

“Is it too late to ask for a second chance?” he asks, pride and formality cloaking the doubt in his voice with the ability of a gaudy neon shroud. They don’t need to be neurally connected for her to know that he’s ashamed, that he’s scared of what she’ll say.

She flips the knife closed and slides it back into the holster in her boot.

“What do you want from me now?”

He sits next to her and chews on the corner of his bottom lip. “Most people I thought were my friends, they couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with me.” And who could blame them? If his memories reflect even a fraction of the truth, Johnny was the same insufferable, egotistical asshole he is today. “You’re fuckin’ closest to me by a long-shot. There twenty-four seven.”

The lighter clicks. A flame flickers and the cherry on his cigarette illuminates his features: sharp, dark, brooding. She gets the appeal, she thinks. 

“And yet...you don’t seem to hate my living guts. At least, so it seemed…’til now.”

What? Did he expect her to leave? It isn’t like she has the choice to continue the cycle of abandoning and throwing away and leaving, no matter how much he deserves it as much as she does. Was there any difference between them in the first place?

“Stop,” he says. “Just stop.”

“You’re such a dickwipe. I can’t believe I got suckered in by all those wartime sob stories.”

But aside from Johnny, who else does she have? There is no reason for Vik nor Misty to be attached to her, and Doña Lupe still resents her; she’s a burden, a reminder of everything they’ve lost, everything she’s taken from them. Johnny, however, is stuck with her for better or worse. When she inevitably bleeds to death next to some dumpster, he’ll be there, ushering her into the afterlife, if there is one.

“My grandmother used to tell me this legend. Y’know, from before the islands sank? There was this dog spirit that lead the dead through the guava forests. I don’t know what kind of fruit that is, but she said some kinds used to stain your mouth black.” She tugs at the dry skin beside her gnawed-off fingernail. “Anyway, this dog, right? Opiyel Guobirán. He leads them through to this cave where the spirit world is. Keeps them safe when they come out at night, so they won’t get lost. So that their families could reunite with them every night.” It’s the reason she got the _cemí_ of it tattooed on her shoulder blade: someone or something to guide her through the darkness. “I dunno. I keep thinking of that lately. What we gotta do. How we’ll end up there soon, on the other side. Or at least the entrance of the cavern. Wondering if…” Her voice catches. “If there’ll be anyone looking for me when I have to cross over, y’know?”

If there’ll be anyone looking for her at night when her spirit wanders restlessly, wondering who still remembers her, who still misses her, remembering the scant good she has done, the legacy she left behind.

Johnny places his hand over hers. His thumb brushes over her wrist.

“So, what? That mean I’m the dog?” he asks. “Your bitch?”

V snorts and sniffles.

“My very own spirit bitch.”

  
  


—

The slick-haired beav in a monkey-suit guarding the elevator to Dark Matter was bad enough; having to wade through an ocean of clamoring fans, he decides, is much worse and it has his nails digging half-moons into his palms. The wisp of cool air from the vents above cut through the thick mass of body heat like a slit of sunlight in a tiny, shuttered dark room. Crowds. He remembers soaking up the attention as a young, local “celebrity” —if he could even be called that. Each boxing match was like an intravenous supply of nourishment for a jaded Night City soul; this place, however, is weighing his lungs down and he's desperate to come up for a breath merely five minutes in. It's loud. It's stuffy. And worst of all, the lights are prying his pupils open with forceps.

A squeeze of the hand reminds him he isn't stuck here alone, following the line of V's arm to the reassuring wink she flings his way. She's gorgeous tonight. Not that she isn't all the time. She's got a peculiar type of beauty all her own that he can't quite describe, but tonight her curves are wrapped in this tight, sparkling gold dress, the two molded black panels covering her breasts, connected by a thin golden chain that drapes to her navel... She's got her back to him as they watch the screen rise.

Ah, shit.

It's not connected to the panels, is it?

He takes a deep breath, glues his eyes to the stage, and tries to focus on the brightly-dressed trio on the stage and not the body chain connecting the three piercings on her torso, lest he walk around with a tent in his pants.

“This was real mean of you,” he murmurs in her ear and she tenses back against him. Oh. That spot on her neck. _Heh._

“Whatever could you be talking about, Viktor?” she teases, pushing the soft flesh of her ass against the tumescence in his jeans. Checkmate. He squeezes his hand on her waist. She giggles and it may as well be his favorite song. Her head leans against his chest, a sweet, floral smell filling his nostrils—must be her gel or whatever she puts in her hair to keep her short, coiled hair in such tiny, neat waves.

“Better behave, now,” he growls.

“Or what?”

The crowd howls as a familiar figure walks onstage.

Kerry Eurodyne.

He recalls a teenage version of him fantasizing about meeting the legend someday; he'd always thought Kerry was the better singer of the two in Samurai, despite what Will and their foster mom claimed. Kerry had also made it to the top on his own, attained the great Night City dream, something which any street kid would admire.

And here he is, 55 years old and completely starstruck.

The rockstar beams, steps down from the platform, reaches his arm out, and for a second Vik swears he's looking at him. Instead, Kerry calls V's name, tugs her comforting body heat away from him, and pulls her to his side.

“This is V. My, uh, right hand,” he tells the media hound. “V's the little bird that shows up when I gotta wrap up and run. Sorry.” He pulls V away in the middle of the culture-vulture's question.

V flings Vik an apologetic smile, holds up a finger. _Gimme a minute._

A minute. That's fine. He can spend a minute or several at the bar enjoying top-shelf liquor. A rare treat for him as he usually keeps the standard O’Dickin and Papa Garzon; he considers himself a simple man who likes what he likes, although he isn’t opposed to trying new things on occasion. Crystalline topaz brown liquor pours into his glass: smokey, with a marked oak aroma. 

The bartender says it’s a vintage. 

O’Dickin is better. Cheaper, too. 

This shit is 150 eddies per glass for a mouthful of dead tree extract. 

He scans the crowd for the woman with short, peach-colored hair. Golds and blacks and silvers glimmer, but nothing quite like V. She’s got that smile, that infectious laugh that makes her clap her hands together and stick out her tongue from between her teeth, dark lashes to cast shadows over the tops of her cheekbones when she’s being coy. 

Shit, he’s got it bad, doesn’t he?

Vik stands from the barstool and leaves outside. Some fresh air might soothe the ache in his head. Will, Tricia, Juancarlos, Ricky, Rachel, Jackie, and soon, V. Getting so involved with someone on the verge of death isn’t the wisest thing he’s done; there’s no way of telling whether this is an act of desperation, of her clinging to the last familiar thing she has left, of using this as a sick, twisted way of saying goodbye or delaying tough choices she needs to make, or whether she really, honestly...

He leans on the glass door to the balcony and lights the end of his cigarette. The light pollution colors the silvery rolling mass of clouds in shades of violets; even through the smog, there’s the unmistakable earthy smell of rain yet to pour. Vik takes a drag. Any moment now, the few people chatting and smoking on the balcony will retreat inside or join him just under the awning. 

“It’s crazy,” he hears someone else say from afar. He hadn’t noticed them before, but Kerry Eurodyne is leaning close to someone who looks similar to—no, _is_ V. His hands are cradling her head, and V has her hands clenched in a tight fist, and Vik can’t stop himself from putting a stop to this. “You got this look, y’know? He’d have this sad little smile on his good days…”

“Everything alright?”

V looks back at him over her shoulder. “Vik…”

“Just checkin’ in,” he says and presses a kiss to her cheek.

Kerry’s blue eyes dart between V, then Vik, and back to V with a grin. “Kept ya long enough, kid. I’ll let ya get back to it,” he says. He pats her on the arm, and starts walking away, but not before he slaps his shoulder a few times. “Take care of ‘er for me, will ya?”

Smoke from Kerry’s cigarette trails behind him as he disappears back into the crowd inside. Vik’s cigarette is likely somewhere on the floor, embers fading into the dreary gray, but he can’t be bothered to look for it right now.

“He thinks you’re hot, you know,” she says.

He cracks a smile, looks back in the direction the rockerboy had left. “Really?”

“Mhm. Says you got a nice ass.”

Kerry Eurodyne said that? Vik leans over at the railing with her and rubs at his nose with the side of his knuckle. “And you?” He was half-expecting Kerry to be infatuated with _her,_ but his comment makes it hard not to grin like an idiot. 

“I’m inclined to agree.” She’s got her eyes on the rare view they have of the city. Buildings fit tightly against each other like lighted tiles; swinging spotlights fade into the haze; cars look like tiny, creeping ants marching in a row, and stream like blood cells in a vein. “Nah, he’s not into me. He said I remind him of a Fabergé egg.”

Vik bites his tongue. Nothing good can come from laughing at that.

“They’re expensive as hell, V. Really rare.”

V sighs. “Oh no, not you too,” she laughs.

Mist drizzles over his blazer, collects in tiny, jewel-like droplets that catch the low, golden light emanating from the club. It clings to the tips of her lashes, though she doesn’t seem to mind.

She pushes away from the railing and starts tugging at the metallic sequin fabric bunched up near her hips. 

“Gonna rain soon. Should probably get back inside.”

Instead, she stops and holds a finger out. “Wait.” She closes her eyes, waves her hands like she’s conducting an orchestra. “Shh. Listen.”

“V, we’re gonna get—”

“Just listen,” she whispers.

Bright snaps of brushes against the skin of drums, the slow thrum of contrabass, the clear arpeggio of brass and crystal plucks of piano strings. Vik doesn’t own too many jazz records other than those Tricia used to play when he and Will were little: Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Dizzy Gillespie. This song Kerry is singing, though, is familiar enough that it strums at something painful in his chest. 

“You owe me a dance,” she says.

“Do I, now?”

“That night at Jackie’s…” Yes, he’s quite familiar. Couldn’t get that image out of his head with soap and bleach. “I’d been meaning to ask you.” She smoothes over the flattened curls at the edges of her hair just behind her ear. “You said you couldn’t dance so…”

Jesus, is he bad at reading situations sometimes.

“I’ve regretted not asking you ever since.”

His ability to dance hasn’t improved in the past months. But a slow dance would be easy, both on the ego and his joints.

Vik holds out his hand. “C’mon then, kid.”

She places her hand in his.

The rain starts to fall. They start to sway.

Is this what it would be like if they didn't have this whole... _thing..._ casting an ominous shadow over them? Comfortable, relaxed, as easy as slipping into warm bathwater. Aside from Rachel and maybe one or two others, his experiences with his old paramours were rife with the need to impress, to show off, to outdo. But, setting aside, he feels no pressure. Just he and V, swaying to the slow beat of a Chet Baker song.

Her hair rustles against his blazer as she presses the side of her face against his chest.

“I love you, Vik. So much. You got no idea.”

She’s said it before and she’s said it with such ease. It’s not something he’s said often, though perhaps he should have. Rachel could have been happier. Yet, something holds him back, a wall or a gate, but whatever it is, her words hang on their own and he can’t bear to reach out, to not let her fall.

“V…”

Her hand squeezes his and she turns her head to the other side, low, where her features hide beneath the contour of her brow, the fan of her eyelashes.

“Shhh. Just let me listen to the song, okay?”

Despite the urgency for words, there are none. Viktor Vector isn’t a coward. But in this moment, he swears he might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opiyel Guobirán is likely a *yellow* dog, but you know. Aesthetics.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Relic malfunction stretches tensions among Vik, V, and Misty to a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major deviation from canon begins in this chapter.
> 
> I'm not saying you should listen to "Heroes" by David Bowie during this chapter, but...
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/track/7Jh1bpe76CNTCgdgAdBw4Z?si=7e281fd4bd3f441f

It hurts.

Everything hurts. From the sharp pain splitting her skull to the burning in her lungs and throat to the fresh scratches on her palms and shins. Everything fucking hurts. She’s fallen from unstable rock shelves while climbing, she’s gotten launched off her bike and burnt the skin off her meat on the blacktop, she’s gotten her face broken about as many times as her limbs—nothing compares to this. This is it. She’s going to die. Or is she dead already?

“Nah, it’s not what you think,” Johnny’s voice says from out of the darkness. “Not yet, anyway.”

White light floods through her pupils. V winces.

Medical instruments are scattered over a table. The air is pregnant with rubbing alcohol and her mouth feels like she’s chewed the stuffing out of a plush toy. Vik’s voice streams in like a gentle ray of early morning sunlight through the slats of dusty blinds. If hell is like this all the time, she supposes she won’t mind spending eternity like this.

But Vik isn’t supposed to be in hell. He belongs up there in the good place with all the saints and those with good intentions who’ve never caught a break in life.

The screens light his face from below, setting his features in a deep scowl, severe and lacking in its usual tenderness. 

Her tongue traces out words like a pen but the ink has long run out.

“You were delirious,” he says and then tells her he had to give her some drug with a needlessly long name. Why does it ring a bell, though? He claims she dragged herself in, kicked his patient off the table, and demanded to be treated.

Johnny. He’d seen Johnny. Johnny wearing her face, her skin. 

“Tell him it was your guardian angel,” Johnny says with her voice, her mouth.

The world is tilted and shaking like a snowglobe in a child's hands, and a high-pitched ringing is poking through her eardrum and into her brain like a pin. Her head’s going to pop eventually. And then it’ll all be over. 

V hauls herself up. She gags in a dry heave that only serves to add another knife to the block. 

“I’ll order something weaker next time,” she rasps.

When the clinic stops spinning, she sees Viktor glaring down at her unamused, arms crossed. He isn’t the type to cackle out loud like she is, but he usually humors her bad jokes with a smirk or a huff. This, however, is raw anger.

The screen swings away.

“Wanna explain why you’ve been letting that... _thing_...take control?”

“What? I passed out. He takes control when—”

“The pseudoendotrizine, V!” He grabs the screens, tilts them enough until she can see. Brain scans. Red spots. There’s no telling what any of these mean. “You’ve been stable until the past week. See this?” He circles a finger over the panel and holds a comparison from a scan from last week to one taken recently. The red area is significantly larger. “You said you’d been taking the blockers. So, explain.”

It’s as if she’s misstepped on a frozen body of water, cracked the ice, and plunged in. He’s caught her. She’s guilty.

“Johnny’s…” So many regrets and, unlike V, no time to say his peace. “He’s saying goodbye.” 

_“Johnny_ is taking over. The only one saying goodbye here is _you._ Jesus Christ, this is the most...It’s because of reckless shit like this that Jack…”

He doesn’t have to finish that sentence to confirm her worst fears. It’s a cruel slap to the face while she’s struggling to stay afloat, and she’s had it coming for months. All it takes is a burst of anger to illuminate the reality that’s been staring at her since Jackie died; she’s known it. It’s different, though, to see it through someone else’s eyes, to confirm it isn’t just her head going haywire.

“You blame me for Jackie, don’t you?”

Vik scours a hand over his scalp. His lack of response speaks louder than any insult or accusation he could throw her way. It’s only fair that he feels that way: first Jackie, then Scorpion and the Aldecaldos following him, then Evelyn; V has done nothing but wreck the lives of the already-downtrodden.

“I told you not to trust Dexter DeShawn!”

“Oh, my God,” she whispers.

The trundle squeaks and rolls toward her, the medical instruments and pill bottles clattering. A blue bottle full of the red pseudoendotrizine and a red bottle full of the blue omega-blockers straddle her custom Burya. 

“Go do what you’re gonna do. But do it now.”

The gun. It sits there so innocuously as if there isn’t the implication that she should swallow the muzzle and squeeze the trigger. Does he think this is for the best? Or does he think she doesn’t have the mettle to do it? The Burya slips into its holster. She already has enough pills to end herself twelve times over, anyway. 

Vik looks to the exit, where Misty’s standing stunned. He wants V to leave, but she’s clinging to the expectation that he’ll say something, anything—whether that’s tearing her apart verbally, telling her he regrets kissing her that night, or regrets what they discussed at Tom’s, that he regrets ever meeting her, or that he wishes they had more time together. Anything. But he gives her absolutely nothing. As if this past year didn’t mean a thing to him, as if she isn’t going to walk out of this clinic to her certain death.

Her jaw clicks as she bites back a sniffle. If this is how he wants to end things, then fine. 

“That’s right. Go hide behind her again. Fucking coward,” she spits. 

Vik doesn’t stop her. 

When she gets on the elevator at Johnny’s bidding, he doesn’t come after her.

When she sits in that rickety plastic lawn chair that cuts into her flesh, he doesn’t sit beside her. Misty does, for some reason; she tells her a story about Jackie, tells her not to be too hard on Vik because of clogged-up chakras or something of the sort. 

“Do you blame me?” V asks. She can’t look her in the eye, because Misty is going to lie but her face won’t be able to hide it, so she stares off into the passing fog.

Misty squeezes her hand.

“No, V. And don’t you ever forget it.”

And then, just like everyone else in her life, she leaves. 

“Fuckin’ scared me, know that?” Johnny says from the precarious ledge on the roof. “Thought you were on your way out.”

“Nope. Still here.” And she’s no longer sure whether that’s a good thing.

She can’t smell anything over the coppery taste in her mouth, but she can imagine the scent from the ashes crowding the tray on the table beside her. Vik must have been up here a while, just sitting, staring into nothing like she is right now. It’s drafty and the November breeze kicks up the dust and makes her eyes water and sting. That’s what it is. The dust and nothing else.

“V, listen.” Johnny toys with the thin bracelet around the tattooed band on his meat wrist, spins it around a few times. “Shouldn’t leave things like this.”

The leaves on Misty’s plants rustle. Somewhere from the streets below a car horn echoes. The Arasaka Tower logo lights up the evening smog in a ghostly glow. She’s all alone and on top of the world and fuck, does she want down.

“Worst case scenario—that what you expect?”

Johnny, too, huh?

“No, but whatever you decide, risk’s gonna be high. If things don’t go our way…” And they seldom do. “Just fuckin’ clear the air. Do it. Now’s the time. Pills can wait.”

V shakes her head.

“Nah.” The inside of her throat feels crowded and sticky. “Best to make a clean break. Nothing tying me down to this place anymore. Sooner they forget, the better.”

“Bullshit, V. Not even you buy that.”

The wind howls, makes the joints in her knuckles ache under the excess length in her sleeves, makes her shiver. What difference does it make? So goes the story of her life—she rolls in with the dawn, clinging to anything with the faintest semblance of stability, only to evaporate like the morning dew under the heat of the sun. This time, she’s corroded everything she’s touched, rusted it over to the point of brittleness and destruction, and there is no fixing it.

Johnny suggests they go it alone, that no one else gets involved in their problems, that if the worst comes to pass, they’ll go fuckin’ nova and carve a name for themselves in that final blaze of glory. She hates that expression, “blaze of glory”; and yet, it’s too late otherwise, isn’t it? Had too many bullets to the head to choose the quiet life.

V stands to take one last look at the cityscape, the facade of glittering lights and beauty wrapped around sewage, corruption, and decay. Fuck this city. Fuck the corpos. Fuck Dex and the Afterlife and Rogue and the relic and everybody else. She grabs the revolver, slides it into the holster on her left hip, opposite the Malorian on her right.

Johnny holds out his hand. “C’mon, princess. We’ve got a city to burn.”

It’s time to end this. 

—

  
  


A fucking coward. She’d called him a fucking coward. A fucking coward who only knows how to hide behind Misty. A bitch move, a childish one, to hurl insults at someone who’s been in your corner from day one.

“You need to apologize. Now,” Misty seethes.

“Why the fuck did you give her those? You know what he’s doing to her head!”

“Because she deserves a choice, Vik!” 

The heavy metal door clangs shut and echoes through the clinic.

He’s done with this.

Steel surgical trays and instruments clatter together into the boiling soapy water in the utility sink. The heat travels through his bones, into his spine, and his fingers buzz with numbness as he rinses off V’s blood. Into the sterilizing machine they go. Like nothing ever happened. Rinse, repeat.

Funny she should call him a coward, seeing as she was the one who ran off and disappeared after showing her ass at Jackie’s funeral. If anyone here was a coward, it was V.

Soon, V will be yet another memorial portrait, next to the one of Jackie he has planned for the other arm. Add her to the long list of dead friends, people he has let down with his incompetence. 

Dirty water gurgles as it swirls down the drain, washing away all traces of red to leave a soapy cellular mass of bubbles clinging to the weathered plastic. 

That’s just how it is, though: life goes on. You get over it, you meet new people, you get back out there into the game, and you keep fighting until someone else dies, and then you do it all again because if not, then goddammit, what is it all for? And if you’re lucky, you leave something behind for people to remember.

Vik leans over the sink. That pinch in his neck is back, snagging on the tangled mess of muscles in his lower back. Last time his lumbar pain had acted up had been just after Jackie… Hah. _V is literally a pain in the neck,_ he remarks wryly. He rolls his neck around, then his shoulders, feeling the ligaments slide and pop beneath his skin. 

Stupid. So stupid. She may as well have signed her own death certificate.

If he’d known she was this unhinged, he would have... 

There’s nothing he could have done. Called her more, maybe. Stayed with her the night after the fight she had with Pepe. He could have been more clear about Dexter; he could have waited another hour before sending Will out for beer; he could have warned Rafael and Juancarlos about the Valentinos; could have reached out to Tricia a bit more; could have told Jackie that Lupe would never want to sell her place for some swanky chalet in North Oak nor a luxurious penthouse in Wellsprings. 

He could have…

Goddammit, he’s going to lose her.

Vik grabs his jacket and runs through the damp, glistening alley to storm into the esoterica. 

“Where is she?”

Misty’s emptying the trash. “The roof.”

He races back to the elevator and mashes the button repeatedly as if the elevator could ever sense the urgency of the matter, but five seconds is far too long, so he scuttles up eight flights of stairs and manages to only slip once. 

Please let her not have done something stupid.

V’s standing before the parapet, gazing out into who-knows-what with her fingers wrapped around her revolver and he feels his heart drop to his feet, the air rushing out of his chest. 

To his relief, she holsters it.

She holds her hand out for some reason while looking at no one in particular until her gaze meets his and she snatches it back.

“V, I…”

They stand there, words unsaid suspended in the stagnant air between them, the silence of bated breath. If this is truly the last time they’ll see each other, then…

No. Can’t think like that.

“You need to come back,” he says.

V jams her hands into her pockets, pressing them down until the fabric stretches near the middle of her thighs. Her top lip looks swollen and not from fighting. She sniffles.

“A little while ago, I got this car,” she says with a voice so fragile he’s sure it’ll break at any moment. “Won it at a race. A Type 66 Cthulhu. Matte black.” She whistles then breaks out into a contagious smile. “Real beauty. V8 engine, too.”

“At a race, huh?” He’ll have to go with her one day, watch her burn rubber behind the wheel. He can picture her flipping her opponents the middle finger through the rearview mirror as they fall behind her, her smile brighter than a burst of sunlight, and the ring of her laughter louder than the purr of the engine.

“Know the Avenger is your baby and all, but…” She licks her lips, still looking at the floor. “Anything happens, keycard’s on my desk at home.”

“C’mon, kid. Don’t say that.”

“I know. ‘S just...I want you to take it, if—Just take it. Don’t rightly care what you do with it,” she drawls. “Sell it. Crash it. Just, uh... Take care of her for me.”

She doesn’t plan on coming back, does she?

“Tell ya what: I’ll take her to the car wash for ya. Get her polished by hand.” His hands smooth out imaginary wrinkles on her hoodie. “And then when you get back, we’ll go on a ride. See where the road takes us.”

She nods but her laugh is plastic and hollow, a cheap imitation of the real thing.

“That sounds like fun.” Her boots scrape against the floor. He can see it: words pushing on the inside of her mouth, ready to be aired out. Instead of speaking, she walks away toward the stairs.

This could be their last moments together. If he loses her...

Panic sets in.

“V!”

She swings and thuds into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about Jackie. I’m so sorry. About everything. I should have stopped him.”

“No, kid,” he sighs. Each hiccup wracking through her body is threatening to shatter any semblance of strength he has left. He’s tired. He’s so tired of everything. Of this self-cannibalizing city, of the lifelong prison that is Watson, the hellhole that is Heywood, and the life associated with it. “Wasn’t your fault. Jack—” he sniffs "—Jackie was set on it. You know how he was.”

V cries into the padding of his syn-leather jacket mumbling apologies, confessing how scared she is to do what she’s about to do. She doesn’t clarify, so he doesn’t ask. If she wanted him to know, she would have told him. All he can do now is hold her until the spasms cease, until the tears have cleared away. The longer he keeps her here in his arms, however, the more intense the urge to prevent her from leaving and finding a way of fixing this. 

Vik kisses her forehead, tasting of salt and rain. “You go and show ‘em what you’re made of, you hear?” The raindrops can hide so much, but they can’t mask the brittle timbre of his voice, steel wires on an old bridge overdue for maintenance. “And you make sure you come back. I don’t know what I’ll do with Misty if…”

_Go hide behind her again. Fucking coward._

She brings his hands to her lips so that they roam over each and every knuckle like she’s committing their shape to memory, holds them against her cheeks.

“I’ll do my best. For Misty.”

He wipes the rain from his face with his forearm. “Dammit, V...And me. And for me. And when you get back… Look, there’s some Bounce Backs and MaxDocs in my desk drawer. Take ‘em. Take all of ‘em. You, uh...You’ll need ‘em.”

Her boots squeak under her weight as she stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. Then his forehead. Then his eyelids and he can feel the dam start to burst. She kisses the tip of his nose before capturing his mouth. All desperation without the dizzying lust, a plea for all the clocks in the world to pause just for the two of them, a veil of mourning for all that could have been.

She pulls away from him but he pulls her back in.

“We got things,” he starts but can’t be sure he’s not simply stalling for time they don’t have. He starts again, “We got things, you and me, that we need to finish discussing. Hear me?”

V nods, trying to smile.

He lets her go.

She walks away with a piece of his heart.

“V,” he calls out again.

She looks back.

_I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I’m sorry for everything. I love you._

But she was right. He’s a fucking coward. A coward who can’t say something as simple as, _I love you_ to the woman he loves.

But V nods again, the beatific visage of a merciful martyr at the threshold of her death.

“I know, Vik. Me too.”

V leaves Vik behind on the roof and smashes the ground floor button on the elevator before she can give in to the temptation to stay in his arms and pretend everything would be alright if she ignores the relic, that everything will go away in the morning and they’ll have decades of bliss together and travel the continent together and she’ll sit and read shards and finally fix that Bombus drone in his clinic and they’ll fall asleep together in front of a new shitty movie every night.

The air in the elevator is stale and heavy, and it struggles to reach her lungs. The sooner she can get to Arasaka Tower, the easier it will be to let go. Each second she spends here calls out to her, offering to swaddle her in enticing empty comforts and what-ifs. 

The door slides open, hits her with a gust of cold, fresh air.

Small puddles sputter under her quickening footsteps. Better hurry before another malfunction kicks in. She might not survive the next one.

“V,” Misty calls out. She stands under the awning behind the waterfall of pouring rain. “Wait. I need…”

The rain trickles down her face, drags down her eyeliner and mascara but she doesn’t seem to care.

“I need you to come back. Alive.”

V spits the droplets collecting on the brim of her lips. “‘Course.”

“No, you don’t understand. I need you to…” As long as she’s known her, she’s never seen panic in her eyes until now. “I need you to come back to us. Me and Vik…We can all miss Jackie together.”

“I know, Mis’. Just gotta do this and then...we’ll make up with Lupe. And we’ll watch a vid together, the three of us. Promise.”

“I want you to promise you’ll be there when I tell Mama Welles.” Her voice rises over the whooshing precipitation.

She doesn’t follow. “About the food?”

Misty scrapes the rain away from her lips, eyes squinting. “About the baby.”

V flaps her mouth open, then closed. A baby. What baby? Was there a baby? Did Misty have a…

“You mean…”

“I wasn’t sure before, but...I need you to be there. You and Vik. And I need your help when we argue about the name, and—and about the baptism and…” 

“Ear piercings.”

Misty breaks a giggle through a choked sob. “The ear piercings.” 

V buries her face in her hair, arms embracing her bones to hers. V can no longer smell anything, but she bets she smells like incense and green tea. Fuck, is she going to miss this. “Shit, Mis’.”

“I know. So you gotta come back. Any child of Jackie Welles is bound to be a handful. And they’re gonna need an aunt.”

Why that statement kills her is uncertain. V isn’t a good influence to have around children; she wouldn’t know what to do with a child in the first place, and that is the main reason why she’d gotten her tubes cauterized. Why would any sane, loving parent want someone like her around something so precious?

“You hear me?”

V shakes her head yes. “I love you, Misty.”

“I love you too. Now go get ‘em, V. And remember: you have a family waiting for you.”

—

Four hours spent prowling through dank service tunnels and hiding inside spotless air ducts. Thirty minutes freezing in place while guards patrol by. Fifteen minutes more until the first bullet hits her. Two hours curled up, bleeding inside an air vent with a wound MaxDoc isn’t touching, and the same two hours until she can drag her aching body through ducts so jagged with bullet holes they could have been cheese graters. Three hours and forty-five minutes until Adam Smasher falls to the floor in a puddle of coolant and oil and blood, and the smoke starts to clear.

“Wrong way, V!” Johnny calls out as she staggers away from the mainframe. “The hell are you doing?”

The hallway spins. Another malfunction whistles in a distorted echo, makes each breath another knife under her ribs, although it could be the bullets.

“The chip…”

“Fuck that, V! Let’s go! Any second you’re gonna flatline!”

Papers upon papers, the clatter of pens and shards on the floor. Arasaka has to have one of those on this floor somewhere. 

“You n’ me. We go together...or not at all,” V wheezes.

She doesn’t know how long it takes her to find a Relic shard but her kevlar vest feels like the back wall on an indoor shooting range, and the shirt underneath is wet and sticky. There’s a blade twisting through her temples, hollowing out any thoughts, compelling her to any action that will end the excruciating, blinding pain.

“It’s just ahead, V. Keep going.”

The cable clicks into the slot in her head with a tiny electronic chirp.

A million little pinpricks press into her flesh as she submerges into the coolant bath. She did it. They did it. Now Alt will hold her end of the bargain, V and Johnny will split, and she’ll get him a body from the morgue and he’ll get a new chance at life while she goes back to her new family and everything will be as it was supposed to be.

_Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table_

Being put through Soulkiller isn’t the worst part of this; the moment Dex shot her, she died. She’s been dead for the past three months, not much different than Johnny. Alt can simply transfer her construct into the chip, as if onto a blank virgin partition. 

And they all lived happily ever after, yadda-yadda.

_Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,_

_The muttering retreats_

_Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels_

_And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells_

Alt’s construct hovers near them, silent and unnerving like some bloodied specter portending doom.

“So that’s really it,” V says. “We’re done. You kept your word.”

Johnny is oddly quiet. Why is he quiet? This is it: Mikoshi burns to the ground, they deliver the coup de grace to Arasaka, and they’ll both walk out of this vast binary code-etched tomb with exactly what they want.

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question ..._

“What is it?” she asks.

“There is one aspect I failed to take into account,” Alt says.

The body. Her body. _Johnny’s_ body. An overworked immune system eating away at the ruins of her consciousness until there is nothing left. V is going to die. After all of this work, despite loss after loss, and blood and tears, she is going to die. Six months. Maybe more, but that’s all. Barely twenty-seven, only to die six months after her birthday. It is imminent.

Johnny takes off his glasses and they disappear into the cyber.

Look at him. Not a hint of surprise.

“You planned this all along, didn’t you? You backstabbing motherfucker! I can’t believe I—You sat back, let me do all the work just so you could fuck me over!”

“Gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“That’s all you’ve ever been, isn’t it? A fucking tapeworm. You…”

His brow twitches in something she can’t completely describe as anger.

“Plan stays the same. I go with Alt. You keep your body.”

“I’m sorry, did you _not_ hear the part where I’m dying?” And he dares to be so cavalier about this as if this is all fixed and they both get their happily ever after. “Fuck you. Fuck you and your fucking hex code output and...”

Johnny asks Alt about the Blackwall. They’re noise and static in the background. V’s rage snuffs out into nothing like a flame on a wick smothered, as if all the oxygen has rushed out and this place, this suffocating place is a vacuum. Good thing constructs don’t have to breathe. 

Is this what Johnny felt this entire time? Nothing? Wandering about winding stairs and balconies made of zeroes and ones, basking in the yawning ring of complete silence?

Two paths: a bridge leading toward cyberspace and the unknown, and a well leading back to her body and certain death. 

“It’s a no-brainer, V. Hurry up and do it.”

“You got no right, no right to fuckin’ tell me what to do.”

“Then do somethin’ already!”

“Fuck you!” _I’m trying._ She needs a moment, a moment to process the lose-lose situations set before her. Johnny keeps the body, does who-knows-what with it, ruins what’s left of her liver, and ODs in an alley next to a dumpster. Or she returns to her withering body and allows the final vestiges of his presence to devour what’s left of her until she’s nothing but a sour aftertaste in people’s mouths.

V takes a step toward nowhere. Closer, but to what?

“You heard them. They’re waiting for you. This was the plan from the get-go, so do it.”

“Will you for once in your goddamn life shut the fuck up? I’m trying to think.” 

Is there no way for her to live?

What about Johnny? Is it going to hurt him if he goes with Alt? 

If he leaves, who’s going to be by her side when everything with Vik and Misty goes to shit? 

Johnny grabs her shoulders. “V. It’s time.”

“No!” She tries to push him off, but her strength is meager. “Don’t fuckin’...Why do I even…? I don’t even—You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Yeah, well...Join the club, I guess.”

Why is he so calm about this? He doesn’t get to play the self-sacrificing saint. Not now, not after all he’s done.

“What are you doing?” This isn’t like him. She shoves him hard enough to make him stagger. “Say something!” She pushes him again. “Do something!” Again. “Fight back, you son of a bitch!”

“This is it, V. End of the line.”

Johnny blurs through the hot tears that snake down the side of her face.

“Get in the well.”

“No.”

“Just do me this final favor.”

“Of course. That’s all you ever fucking do. Ask for favors and make excuses. Well, you know what?”

“Lemme guess: Fuck me?” 

An obnoxious but sad smirk tilts at the side of his mouth. She hates it. Wants to punch it off his face until there’s only blood and bone and the connection between them.

“I hate you,” she sobs and he embraces her.

“I know.” 

Despite their pixelated forms and the damage done to her senses, V can smell him: wet dirt, rust, leather, and cigarettes.

His tank top crumples between her clenched fingers. “I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

Johnny’s smile doesn’t quite touch his mournful hooded eyes. 

Neither of them believes that.

“I’ll be waiting,” he says.

—

V left just after 4 in the morning.

A couple of hours of silence is normal. Maybe she’s resting in her bed right now. Or maybe she’s found an expert to help and she’s away from the holo.

Vik turns away from the sunlight pouring in from his window into the couch in his living room. Floyd mewls and leaps down from the bed she’d made over his belly. The clock on the oven reads 9:52. He should be at the clinic cleaning up for the next walk-in patient, or re-alphabetizing the implants and mods and drugs in the cabinets. Doing something. Something other than lying here on this old couch waiting for news. Misty insisted they close up for today and rest, given last night’s events. If he were to try to leave, she’d get up from his bed and whine and moan about how he’s going to work himself to death and the need for sleep and balanced meals like he isn’t the medical expert here.

Fuck it. He can’t sleep.

Hot water gurgles in the fine-ground coffee sludge. He stirs. Adds more water.

Four minutes.

Four long minutes.

The bursting air pockets leave behind tiny cavities in the bloom.

Vik taps away on the countertop.

_No missed calls._

_No new messages._

The coffee hisses and bubbles up through the plunger and then sloshes into his mug. A few drops burn his fingers and he shakes them out. 

The water vapor rolls in a whir inside the tea kettle on the stove behind him, promising an eardrum-piercing shriek within a few minutes.

Three minutes.

_No new messages._

Over tinny high fructose muzak the weatherman on TV drones on about a cold front and storm system hurtling through Night City, while a sheet of rain ripples down Vik's glass windowpane. Cue thunder. _Yeah, no shit._

The coffee swirls in his mug, but it smells like antiseptic. Everything smells like cloying cherry-almond cleaning solution and bleach and blood. He sets it aside on the side table.

_No new messages._

Misty trudges out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. Cabinet doors clack open and closed. Metal clinks against ceramic. 

The springs on the couch squeak. Misty’s gaze is fixed on the cup.

“I miss caffeine already.”

“I told you, you can still have—”

“I know. I’m...But now that I got attached to the idea…”

Being careful. He gets it.

He ruffles at her bedhead. Misty leans her head on his shoulder _._

_No new messages._

After breakfast at Tom’s Diner, they catch the tail end of _Wipe Out_. It reminds him that he hates installing faceplates.

_No new messages._

Misty meditates cross-legged to the drone of the singing bowl she’d left for him a few years ago. The fridge is louder.

His David Bowie 12-inch record twirls around and around playing “Heroes” in the background. Vik wipes the specks of dust off the record player and shakes off thoughts of V. Both keep coming back.

_No new messages._

When did he order pad thai?

Months ago, seems like, considering the self-contained ecosystem it has developed.

The take-out box swishes into the garbage can. Vik scrubs the refrigerator shelf. There are no stains on it, but he might as well.

_No new messages._

The hot water runs out within five minutes. Fucking upstairs neighbors. The valves on the shower turn off with a squeak.

He re-tightens the hinges on his back-up ripperdoc tool.

Misty insists they go on a walk to the park once the rain lets up but Watson is on lockdown again. The rain continues to pour.

It’s barely past noon.

At this point, Vik is sure he’ll shred the meat off his body.

The holo chimes.

Vik snatches it from the table.

**[ Fred | 12:22 pm ]**

_Razor Hughes vs. Rhino @ GIM. 8 pm._

_U comin_

_?_

“Son of a bitch!” The Agent smacks against the countertop.

Misty insists stressing about V isn’t good for his health but her cuticles are bleeding and the sleeve on her sweater has a tuft of frayed strings.

Once outside, bitter smoke fills his mouth and billows out of his nostrils. V is a pain in the neck and a reason to pull on cigarettes again. 

Fuck. If she’s dead and he has to put her bullet-ridden body on ice until Trauma Team decides to pick her up and then has to watch while the funeral home puts her into a retort oven and then he has to pick out an epitaph…

The corners of his eyes start to prickle.

The sports bar is raucous with unhappy soccer fans but at least the shitty whiskey does its job. Ice crackles in the glass, makes a soft tinking sound as the cubes shift. 

His nails are bruised. He should stop tapping them against hard surfaces.

Vik opens his eyes. The side of his face is sticky and the whiskey is near translucent with ice long-since melted. Bartender doesn’t seem to care and the new crowd of patrons is too busy yelling at the screen to notice. Rhino and Razor are dancing on the ring as he did so many years ago. Rhino falls at round three. Vik can make out the shape of someone who looks like Fred, laughing with something in his hands. Probably paid Rhino to throw the fight. _Bush-league, Fred. Bush-league._

The streets are less crowded this evening. Only the occasional person with an umbrella, kids in ponchos, and weirdos like him playing double-dutch with the on-and-off downpour. Vik presses his back to the brick wall of a building, avoiding the draping curtain of water falling off the awning.

_“I love you, Vik. So much. You got no idea.”_

He should have said it back. He should have told her. He should have told her until she could remember nothing else. Then at least, in her last moments, she would have something fond to remember other than that fight.

It’s just the raindrops flowing down his face. Has to be.

The holo chimes again.

Vik swears he’s about to be sick. His Agent slips from his hands and splashes into a puddle and he curses repeatedly.

**[ V | 10:46 pm ]**

_made it_

His body vacillates between an inhale and an exhale, makes a strange whimpering noise.

She’s alive.

For now.

**[ Me | 10:46 pm ]**

_Are you okay?_

_Where are you?_

_I’ll come pick you up_

The minutes pass. 

Vik is going to tear the rest of his hair off to match.

**[ V | 10:59 pm ]**

_no_

_im sorry_

_i need time_

_im sorry_

_i need time alone_

Time alone that is potentially just her hemorrhaging all over wherever she is. Time alone that is potentially just her wounds festering until she goes septic. 

Vik takes a deep breath: 4, 7 8.

**[ Me | 11:01 pm ]**

_Two days_

_You hear?_

_Any longer and Misty’s sending the cops_

The days are long and the nights longer. Despite Misty’s protests, he can’t find it in himself to take two more days off work and so he submerges himself in work, elbow-deep in caffeine and skulls and mods and corrective implants until the spasms in his left hand return and he can’t so much as grip the handle of a coffee mug without it splashing scalding liquid all over himself. 

Newsflashes from several channels and screamsheets tell about the “vicious attack” on Arasaka Tower that left thousands without electricity for 36 hours, and about the pixelated face of an unknown attacker. 

Looks like those M.K. 3s scramblers came in handy after all.

**[ Me | 4:02 pm ]**

_Text me something so I know not to send TT_

He’s worrying too much. She knows basic first aid. She’s had wounds before. 

But what if the power surge was just a fluke? What if nothing changed with that goddamn thing in her head?

The couch in the clinic is killing his back.

He can’t go home.

It’s been a day and a half and V hasn’t texted back and Vik is ready to knock the punching bag through the slatted garage door. Rattling chains echo with each solid thunk of his fists, the impact shooting sparks of pain through the gloves and into his hands and wrists. Better that way. Distracts him from the daunting task of waiting around. 

Two days and V hasn’t made contact.

He’d warned her.

Megabuildings are shitty little cities within a bigger, shittier city: shops and restaurants and clinics tucked away in the middle of class-segregated residential units: luxurious apartments sitting on dilapidated housing units with flickering lights. The concrete is always wet with the mystery liquid of the day and the latest ejectees are always sitting by piles of discarded furniture and garbage. 

V’s megabuilding is no different.

The second the elevator door opens, a woman carrying luggage bumps into him and yells. Until she gets a better look at him. She’s pretty, he thinks, her thin locs wrapped in a high bun type thing on top of her head. 

Great ass, too. Damn.

Vik taps his fingers against the box of Portuguese egg tarts in his hands. This is silly, being so worked up over going to see a friend. She’s probably fine and she’s passed out on her bed, exhausted from all the action and the treatments. 

His lips feel dry. Should have packed chapstick.

He swallows, finger hovering near the call button on the doorbell.

A quick press and it rings.

No answer.

V isn’t usually at her apartment, from what he remembers. Too busy barreling through the city like a cannonball during gigs. Stays in her car sometimes.

He rings again.

There’s a clatter behind the door.

“V?”

When no one answers, he knocks, calls her name again.

Nothing.

And so he knocks, shouts, slams his fist against the door until he can’t take it anymore. He pushes the code in. The door slides open.

V’s standing by her bed, a haphazardly folded article of clothing in her hand on its way to an open suitcase. She closes her eyes at the sight of him, inhales so deeply that her shoulders move.

He wants to yell and remind her he asked to let him know she was okay. And here she is, a little beat up, but otherwise fine. He wants to scream until the veins in his neck pop around the tendons because she’s kept him awake and on the verge of a mental breakdown for over 48 hours and she didn’t even have the decency of opening the fucking door when he rang.

He sets the box aside.

There’s so much he wants to say but the thoughts in his head are a bunch of knotted-up wires, old and frayed, and nothing coherent comes out.

Vik pulls her to him, crushes her against his chest.

She’s alive.

She made it.

And she’s cured.

And they’ll have time, time to talk about what they want to do, their plans, and whether she’s going to stay.

V doesn’t hug him back.

“Johnny’s gone,” she says.

“And? How does it feel? Any improvement?”

“Vik…” Her voice buzzes against his chest. “It didn’t work.”

He pulls back. “What didn’t work?”

“The Relic… Johnny’s gone and it doesn’t even matter. I was too late.”

That can’t be right.

Because if Johnny’s not on the Relic and V’s psyche remains intact, then what is there to stop the process of healing?

She explains it: the AI, how Johnny agreed to give his life for V, how the AI miscalculated and didn’t take into account that Johnny’s engram was irreversibly possessing every shred of her so that her own body would reject her until her last dying breath. Six months. She has six months left, give or take.

There are no words for this. 

She goes back to packing.

She’s not crying. After all the tears she shed these past few days, the lack of emotion is unsettling. Like she hasn’t fully processed it.

She zips up the bag.

“Where are you going?”

“Arizona,” she says. “The Aldecaldos have contacts there.” She sighs. “Last chance I got.”

She’s dying. She’s dying and she’s leaving. Again.

She’s dying and she’s leaving and she wasn’t planning on telling them. Another repeat of Jackie’s funeral.

“When were you gonna tell us? Three months later?” It’s sharper than he intended, but there’s no going back now.

“Are you serious?”

“Because from where I’m standin’ it’s a pattern. And it’s pretty fuckin’ lousy.”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“If not now then _when,_ V?” She starts pacing, hands on her head. “Stop running away for once and take a look at what’s in front of you!”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I fucking love you!”

V stops. He can’t tell what the wide-eyed look she’s giving him means, but he’s thankful it’s something other than the blank look from earlier.

It’s supposed to be a weight off, getting that off his chest but in reality, it feels more like an exchange.

She shakes her head, palm over her face.

“That's not fair. You can't do this to me, not now.”

He takes her hands.

“I _love_ you, Verónica.” Now she’s crying. “And I’m too fuckin’ old and too fuckin’ tired to play this shit. And now… Either you let me in or this goes nowhere.”

She repeats it over and over again: _Don’t do this to me._ As if he would ever lie to her.

“Six months.”

“Nothing’s changed,” he insists. “We get you to a specialist and we’ll get all this sorted out.”

“I killed Jackie.”

“Ah...C’mon, kid, no one thinks that. Not even Lupe. Look, I’m sorry I said that. I was mad. I was out of line.”

She says it’s all her fault, that she’s sorry, and the more he insists there was nothing anyone could have done, the louder she gets until his shirt is saturated with the weight of her misplaced guilt. 

“Ever since I came here, ‘done nothing but fuck everyone over.”

“Nah,” he murmurs into her hair. “That’s just life in the big city of dreams.”

Once she’s calmer, they take a seat on her bed next to the luggage. The room was relatively bare last time he was here, but it’s near-empty without her clothes hanging up in the closet. She tells him about Panam (which he comes to find was the woman from the elevator, coincidentally) and about Scorpion, about the Aldecaldos and how they’d helped her with finding an ex-Arasaka fugitive. She tells him she didn’t feel right relying on anyone, loading them down. If she only knew her absence made those three months that much more unbearable.

“Will you at least tell Misty? Otherwise, she’ll mope around my apartment until you get back.”

She’s tracing the back of his hands. Tendons or bones or veins, he guesses. Feels strange to be touched this gently. 

Because either way, she’s leaving.

“You’re coming back.” It’s a question disguised in a cowardly demand. What if she’s not?

V squeezes his hand. “...Please say it.”

“What?”

Her nose twitches. “That you want me to come back.”

“Jesus,” he sighs, pulls her close, kisses her temple. “‘Course I want you to come back. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

There's a long pause. Her fingertips brush over and catch on the calluses in his palm.

“Yeah. I’ll come back,” she says in a small voice. And then, “I love you, Vik.”

“Yeah...I love ya too, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left!!! 
> 
> Will I finally complete one thing for the first time in my life? Find out in the next (possible) chapter of "Black Dog"!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Series finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now what we've all been waiting for: Vik and V finally do the fuck.
> 
> The last scene is from a brand new POV, so don't worry if you don't recognize the name.

In the month V has been gone, Vik sees an increase in business. With the sharp decline in Arasaka stock, older cyberware models are cheaper than ever—a last desperate attempt to attract frightened investors, to scrape up the wreckage and jury-rig its crumbling infrastructure into a façade of an unfaltering empire. Everyone and their cousin’s dog wants the Arasaka Mk. 3 cyberdeck, or the Arasaka gorilla arms, and Vik’s chair never seems to be empty. A good thing, as it gives his hands and mind something to fiddle with instead of ruminating over whether her latest treatment was going to work or not. A bad thing, since it gives his hands something to do until they cramp up and the joints start to swell.

They’ve been messaging each other back and forth on good days; she promised him that during her bad days she’d leave the “read” notification on, just so he knows she’d received it, that she’s alive. Occasionally, he and Misty will receive pictures: impossibly clear starry skies, a friend of hers—an old cowboy type named Cassidy—playing the guitar by a campfire, V climbing the side of a cliff with nary a carabiner, some stuffed toy dolphin she named Jones. The hollows of her face have gradually begun to fill out and the stark darkness once permanent under her eyes has cleared up for the most part. All good signs.

  
  


**[ V | December 23rd | 2:07 pm ]**

_immune system’s shot_

_doc says i gotta lose the mods_

_body’ll reject them_

  
  


**[ Me | 2:10 pm ]**

_Better than nothing, right?_

**[ V | 2:11 pm ]**

_i guess_

_those kiroshis were special tho_

**[ Me | 2:13 pm ]**

_Won’t be any use to you if you’re dead, kid._

**[ V | 2:20 pm ]**

_yea_

_still sucks tho_

  
  


It’s strange not having V waltz into the clinic at ungodly hours, covered in blood or motor oil, not having her lounging on his couch while tinkering with that bot or on scrapped cyberware or scrolling through yet another data shard with useless information. Misty has taken her place instead, claiming the smell of incense is turning her stomach. Vik is convinced she’s just lonely.

  
  


**[ V | January 17th, 6:39 pm ]**

_[image]_

  
  


Arizona looks beautiful. Rugged landscapes in windswept brushstrokes of pink and orange and brown, moonrises behind towering rocky knolls, cracked sun-baked earth, and vivid green saguaros scraping across endless cerulean skies. Most of all, she has that gleam in her eyes—dark brown, he discovers—of unbridled joy, freedom. 

Maybe she isn’t cut out for Night City, after all.

  
  


**[ V | 6:50 pm ]**

_kinda feel naked without em_

_might try to find similar lenses_

**[ Me | 6:50 pm ]**

_Look good either way._

**[ V | 6:51pm ]**

_me or my eyes_

She’s going to be the death of him.

  
  


**[ Me | 6:59 pm ]**

_C’mon, kid_

_Both_

  
  


She tells him about the waterfall they visited earlier in the day. Vik didn’t even know those still existed there, figuring they all dried up with climate change. “Fifty Foot Falls,” she says the place is called: white veils cascading from gnarled stone into a crystalline turquoise creek—one of the last remaining places untarnished by human greed. 

  
  


**[ V | 7:45 pm ]**

_[image]_

  
  


A few members of the Aldecaldos are in the creek, children and adults alike splashing each other, while others stand on flat stones peeking up from the water. When he zooms in, he can make out Panam in the creek wiping her face with her palms. 

The next picture she sends is of that guy, Mitch, picking Panam up while she’s kicking and yelling at something or someone off-screen. 

In the lower-left corner, he can see V’s knee. Bare.

  
  


**[ Me | 7:46 pm ]**

_You didn’t get in?_

  
  


It’s bait but then again it’d be a shame to go somewhere that nice and not go in.

**[ V | 7:47 pm ]**

_course i did_

  
  


Some fresh air and clean water should have done her body some good. He can just imagine her now, splashing around with everyone else, laughing with that contagious little snort-and-cackle.

Vik finishes toweling off his hair, freshly shampooed of sweat and grime, and dries off the back of his ears before dropping the towel onto the neatly-made bed, prompting Floyd to dart off the comforter. Small cuts from his razor poke and sting over his face; some of them will inevitably turn into papules or cysts. He winces as he picks off the tiny pieces of red-tinged paper tissue over them. _Ah, well._

He’ll spend the night in front of the TV again until he passes out, he decides. Just another Wednesday night. Vik stretches out over the bed, scratching his side, then the irritated skin on his neck even though it’ll only make his acne worse. 

The Agent rings.

V sent him an image while he was in the shower, and now a different one. 

He opens the first.

She’s standing off to the side next to Panam, the leader of the Aldecaldos (Paul? Shawn? What did she say his name was again?), and that guy Cassidy. Her back is toward the camera, but she’s looking over her shoulder with a cheeky grin because she _has_ to know that wet bikini she has on fits her ass all too well, has to know what the dimples at the bottom of her spine do to him. 

He runs a hand through his hair. _Christ._

The second depicts her with her arm around Panam. The soaked fabric on her dark bikini top is puckered around her tits, and her pierced tongue sticks out in an expression that would be otherwise silly were he not already stirring in his boxers. 

  
  


**[ Me | 8:00 pm ]**

_Looks like fun._

_A friend take these for you?_

**[ V | 8:02 pm ]**

_yea, mitch_

**[ Me | 8:02 pm ]**

_Lucky man_

**[ 8:03 pm ]**

_Lookin good, btw_

Understatement of the night. 

The ellipses on her side of the screen blink for what seems like forever. 

  
  


**[ V | 8:05 pm ]**

_yeah?_

**[ Me | 8:06 pm ]**

_Yeah._

  
  


Vik readjusts himself, flips through the TV channels if only to take his mind off the semi-erection in his boxers and off the fact that he’d give anything to take V behind one of those boulders and strip that flimsy fabric off her body, wrap her legs around his head and lick into her until she trembles and begs him to stop. 

It doesn’t work.

He accidentally makes eye contact with Floyd. She meows at him from the doorway. Goddammit, how’s he supposed to jack off with the damn cat watching?

He gets up to feed her a little extra kibble just for today, even if Misty insists it’s not good for cats because it’s _just for tonight_ for fuck’s sake, and then closes the bedroom door behind him.

The little blue LED on the Agent flashes with a new message.

  
  


**[ V | 8:10 pm ]**

_[image]_

_how bout now_

  
  


Vik whispers a heated curse at the sight of her standing in front of a mirror in a pair of black panties and her signature white tank top, fabric divulging more than suggesting the lack of any other garments under it. 

He swallows.

  
  


**[ Me | 8:11 pm ]**

_You can do better than that._

**[ V | 8:12 pm ]**

_you dont get to make requests rn_

_not til you send me a pic_

**[ Me | 8:12 pm ]**

_Of what?_

**[ V | 8:12 pm ]**

_oh come on_

**[ Me | 8:12 pm ]**

_Use your words, sweetheart._

  
  


He chuckles as the ellipses flash on, fade, flash back on. He’s either left her without words or she’s about to send him something positively filthy. A win-win, either way.

  
  


**[ V | 8:14 pm ]**

_what do you think you gonk_

_of you obvs_

  
  


She’s been sending him suggestive texts for the past two hours and now she gets shy on him? He’s being a little shit, he knows, but it’s that adrenaline rush he has missed since retiring from boxing.

Part of him feels a little silly taking selfies like this; they were things he took as a kid, showing off his latest gains or tattoo or piercing or mainline. There was one pose, however, that used to get him plenty of compliments—about his eyes, supposedly, but...he knew better. 

Maybe it’ll work now.

Vik gets under the covers, rests his cheek on his pillow, and angles the camera down enough to put his decades-long work on display, pulling the sheets low around his hips.

This is so fucking stupid. Despite himself, he presses send and lays in a puddle of stomach-churning, nameless anxiety. He’s way too old for this shit.

  
  


**[ V | 8:16 pm ]**

_holy shit_

_knew you were shredded_

_but still_

**[ 8:17 pm ]**

_shit_

  
  


Or maybe not.

**[ Me | 8:18 pm ]**

_Yeah?_

_Tell me about it._

  
  


His pulse races down his neck as he tucks his hand under his boxers and he hisses at the contact over the sensitive, throbbing flesh of his length. 

In lieu of words, she sends another picture. She’s topless, but that fucking forearm of hers is crossed over her breasts.

  
  


**[ Me | 8:19 pm ]**

_Show me._

**[ V | 8:19 pm ]**

_you first_

**[ Me | 8:20 pm ]**

_Already did._

**[ V | 8:20 pm ]**

_you know what i mean_

**[ Me | 8:20 pm ]**

_Use your words and ask nicely._

  
  


She’s typing away again and Vik swipes his tongue over his dry lips. Something satisfying about having a toughened merc at his mercy. 

He sits up against the headboard.

  
  


**[ V | 8:21 pm ]**

_i wanna see why you always walk with that spring in your step_

  
  


Vik laughs. Close, but no cigar.

  
  


**[ Me | 8:21 pm ]**

_Suppose having a pretty gal like you around helps_

  
  


**[ V | 8:22 pm ]**

_please vik_

_?_

_fuck i need to know how many fingers to put in_

  
  


Fuck. 

He figured she was getting off on this the same way he is, but to have her confirm she's touching herself is something else. He leans his head back, a sigh of relief and pleasure dripping from his lips as his thumb rubs circles over his slick glans. Just how wet is she, he wonders.

  
  


**[ Me | 8:23 pm ]**

_[image]_

**[ V | 8:23 pm ]**

_fuck_

_holy sh it_

_makin my mouth water_

**[ Me | 8:23 pm ]**

_That all?_

**[ V | 8:23 pm ]**

_fuck vik come on_

**[ 8:24 pm ]**

_wanna see?_

  
  


Shaky fingers dial her on the holo. He needs to see her, hear her.

“Vik,” she whispers and it makes him twitch painfully enough that he divests himself of his now-tight boxers.

“Show me.”

In the relative darkness of her tent, she licks her lips, bites them. The holo shakes as she moves it lower, past her breasts, down to where her other hand is moving under her underwear. Through a soft little sigh, there’s a wet smacking noise that pulls a visceral groan from him. She lifts her hand back up for him, spreads her fingers so that her arousal glistens, and stretches into a crystal clear thread between them.

“Shit, sweetheart. Been thinkin’ about me a lot, ain’t ya?”

Her hand disappears below the screen and her eyes close. “Y—yeah,” she says through a gasp.

Exactly what he wants to hear. He hums in satisfaction.

“You’re gonna wait and be a good girl for me, right?”

V nods, dazed with what he hopes is lust.

“Put your fingers in your mouth. Clean them off.”

She brings her fingers to her lips, makes a show of curling her pierced tongue around each one, and sucking them clean the way he imagines she’ll do with his cock when they get together. His thumb mimics every flick of her tongue over his length.

“So good for me. Such a good girl.”

She smiles, tilts her head. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. And now you’re gonna finish getting naked. Wanna see all of you, beautiful.”

She whimpers and it makes him throb. She sets the holo down on the cot. Fabric swishes. A pair of black panties swing from her finger before they’re discarded to fuck-knows-where and she crawls back over to the holo.

“You’re such a good girl. So good for me. Now you’re gonna play with your pretty little tits. Let me see.”

Is she this shy during sex? Or is this a game?

From the way she pinches her bottom lip under her teeth as she squeezes her breasts, he wants to say it’s the latter.

“Thought you were so clever walking into my clinic like that, huh?” He’s running out of breath with every slow stroke of his hand. “What were you hoping I’d do?”

“Oh, fuck…”

“Tell me. Did you want me to put my mouth on them? Tug at the piercings?” He certainly wanted to.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” she whines.

“Go ahead. Show me just how you like it.”

The screen trembles. Her fingers pinch and twist at her dark brown nipple, tug at the barbell. 

Who moans first is unclear, but his name is on her lips.

“Please…”

“Please what?”

She runs her nails down her abdomen.

“Please let me touch myself.”

Vik bites the inside of his cheek. “Aren’t you already, dollface?”

“No, I mean…”

“Use your words.”

V whines again. “Fuck, please, baby, I want you inside of me.”

She’s a mess. She’s a mess and she’s letting him take control of her. She’s a mess and she’s all his. He takes a shaky breath, pausing a moment while the urgent need to cum subsides.

“Open your legs.”

The corner of her mouth curls up. The screen shakes again then follows her hand lower, lower. Slowly. Until it reaches the apex of her thighs. A moment of hesitation and then her legs spread. She’s all too eager to fulfill his request to let him see. It’s a crime he can’t touch her, but he can pretend his hand is her drenched, silky lips stretching to fit all of him inside of her, and he can sketch out a pathetic copy of her taste on his tongue that leaves him starving rather than sated.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Can’t wait to be inside you. God, you’re so wet for me.”

Her fingers dig into the softness of her inner thigh. She’s waiting.

“Go ahead. Spread yourself for me.”

A shame it’s so dark in her tent but he can make out the motion well enough to trace a picture in his mind. Just one more thing he’ll have to explore when she gets back, when she’s right next to him squirming.

“One finger. Don’t you dare touch your clit. Hear me?”

V nods eagerly, eyes half-lidded. He can see the knuckle on her middle finger working, probably in little circles. If only her finger were his tongue and then he could lick and suck and press to their satisfaction, all salt and sultry breaths. 

“God, you’re such a good girl,” he whispers. “What do you think your reward should be?”

Her breath hitches, fingers working a little more quickly.

“No, no, no. Don’t cum yet, sweetheart. Not yet.’

V whines, kicks her legs out, pulls her hand away.

“Tell me what you want first.”

“Fuck, Vik…” She’s frowning. He loves it. “I wanna see you touch yourself.” And then she pleads, “Please?”

This shouldn’t make his face heat up the way it does. Something about her being so vulnerable and sweet and hungry for him… Fuck. He steels himself, takes the holo, and shows her. Slow, long, even strokes. He physically bites back a moan.

“Shit... You’re so big.”

He chuckles. He has no sly response to this, not over the holo. But if she were here with him, he’d trace the slick tip around those lips of hers until she obediently stuck her tongue out, impatient for him to slip into the wet heat of her mouth.

“G’head,” he says, voice rumbling more than he intends. “Touch it and put a finger in.”

There’s a soft moan of relief, followed by that tell-tale wet smacking noise.

“God, I want you so bad.”

 _“Fuck, V…”_ Legs spread wide for him as he rams repeatedly into her, her mouth parted like she can’t believe he’s fucking her so good. 

He’s so close but he wants to savor this, savor the sound of her climaxing around her fingers.

“Harder, sweetheart. As many as you want.”

Her hand slaps over her mouth, face twisting in pleasure as she shivers—the only proof of her compliance.

“Careful, now,” he teases. “Want the whole camp to hear you finger-fucking yourself?”

She hesitates, eyes wide. To his surprise, she nods.

Likes showing off. He should have known. Vik bites his lip, canine pressing into the scar of his old snakebite. He wonders whether she’s the kind who likes to fuck in secluded corners of alleys or have her tits or ass pressed against windows while she gets absolutely wrecked.

“Go ahead, then,” he says breathlessly. “Let ‘em know who you’re thinkin’ about.”

“Oh, fuck…” Her voice snags as her hips buck up into her hand and the cot squeaks and so does she. _“Vik, fuck...fuckyeahfuckfuckfuck…!”_

Pleasure rushes through every nerve and vein and artery as he listens to her say his name, hears those filthy noises her pussy makes under the stirring of her fingers, and Vik shivers as ropes of cum spill over his hand, over his stomach, over his thighs. 

“Shit, sweetheart,” he sighs, panting. “Fuck…”

Her holo drops—next to her, he ventures.

They lay there in sparkling, hazy silence. He can hear her catching her breath on the other side. She’s probably covered in sweat, heavy-lidded, chest heaving. 

It’s not quite the same if she’s not here next to him curled up by his side for him to kiss her, run his fingers down her arm until the fine hairs on her flesh rise in tiny little bumps, for her to fall asleep in his arms only for them to do this all again in the morning.

There’s a sniffle from the other side.

Is she...crying? He blinks, shakes off the haze.

“Hey... Did I...? Are you...?”

Another rattling sniff.

“No, no...Jesus. Sorry. It happens,” she says and attempts to laugh through the tears surely staining her cheeks. “Every fucking time. Don't even know why. Just does.”

A few beats of silence.

Psychology isn’t his forte, so he wouldn’t know either. As rough as he likes to get, a crying partner does absolutely nothing for him. But if this is normal for her…

After cleaning himself off with the tissues on his nightstand, he sets the holo on the pillow next to him, lies on his side. It doesn’t quite replace having her warm body next to him, but it’s better than nothing.

She picks up the holo, does something similar, and brings the sheets up over her naked torso.

“Stay with me for a bit?” she asks.

His eyes are heavy, but he manages a smile.

“Of course.”

  
  


—

  
  
  
  


It’s strange to be back in Night City, within its claustrophobia-inducing stalagmite buildings tagged with graffiti and smoke and bullets. Feels like forever although it’s been merely over three months. Her apartment is probably empty and the rest of her stuff is likely in a fly-infested pile under one of the stair landings, one among many of the megabuilding’s rejects. 

The Aldecaldos drop her off just outside of Santo Domingo where the gravel crackles under the rolling wheels. A gust whirls a cloud of tawny dust around them, separates her from the man waiting for her with his arms crossed and leaning against a familiar matte black Quadra. He offers her a wave and that smirk she’d fallen in love with.

It’s stupid, this childish giddiness she feels when she launches herself into Vik’s arms but it’s frighteningly real and she can’t help how her arms tighten around him when she feels him return her embrace.

“Hand-polished, just like I said.”

“Shut up.” She presses her lips against his, lets herself savor this rare moment. What little she can taste of him is just like she remembered: dark and smokey, just like whiskey.

Back at the esoterica, Misty meets her with teary eyes and a full bump for a belly. She talks about how Doña Lupe and she made up after the holo conference the four of them had together, that Lupe won’t stop ordering lacy little baby outfits nor gifting her hand-knit blankets like the grandmother-to-be that she is, about how restless Vik and busy has been since V left and about the nanite treatment that promises to extend V’s life for at least ten more years. It’s like she never even left. Misty’s tactile as ever: hand over hers, an affectionate squeeze, a hug here and there.

Vik’s in his clinic finishing up on a client, or so Misty says. He’s probably changed the fitted t-shirt back to his work shirt. A pity. She could have stood to look at him like that some more. 

She gives V that little look she gets when she’s putting the pieces together.

“You should go back there,” she says. “It’s just a routine tune-up. Should be five more minutes, tops.”

“You’ve gotta stop doing that.”

Misty rolls her eyes and pushes back from the counter she was leaning on. “You’re off in la-la land. Too obvious.” She grabs her messenger bag from the chair. “Anyways, I promised Mama Welles I’d help make the rest of the tamales, so...I’m gonna close up now.”

After saying their goodbyes V sits on the stairs, thankful her sense of smell had gone to shit. 

Since the first time they’d had sex over the holo, they’d done it a total of three times and it’d been hot and heavy and—at least the last time—so intimate it almost scared her. They’d both use their real names, fallen asleep together at her request, and she’d told him she loved him so many times...

It’s not like she’s here for sex. So then why is she so nervous? 

Still feels strange to waltz back into someone’s life like this. It’s something she’s never done before: come back. She’s always running, moving on to the next thing, and now that she’s here and her roots are starting to dig into the soil, it’s terrifying because what if it doesn’t work out? What if she ruins everything like she always does? What if she has to tear herself away to keep him and Misty and the baby out of harm’s way?

“Hey, V!” Vik calls from the basement.

The person she assumes is his client climbs the stairs without a second look. Fucking city-slickers.

V hauls herself off the suspiciously damp stairs and slaps the dirt off the back of her jeans.

Vik’s got his back to her as he places his instruments and exoglove parts in a container full of blue liquid. 

“Come on in. Grab a chair.” 

The Kiroshi and Spunky Monkey signs bathe the austere concrete basement in a cozy glow. Given the history she has with this place, she should hate it: it’s cold, it’s clammy, it’s sterile and stuffy and everything she hates, and yet she can’t help gravitating toward the strange familiarity and comfort it emanates. 

“Pink, hm?”

“Huh?” She reaches for her hair. “Oh, yeah. Like it?”

“‘S nice. You look good, kid.” He glances back at her from his work.

That Bombus bot sits unfinished on the desk in front of the couch. Looks like he’s made some progress on it and has replaced one of the glass LED panels on two of the sides. Since he’s busy cleaning, she might as well finish what she was intending to do. After rummaging through his desk for tools and parts, she starts playing around with it. Should be no more difficult than reprogramming a Wyvern.

There’s a soft clack and a rumble as he kicks his chair over to her. He sits, spins around three or four times on it.

“Soooo,” she says while unscrewing the motherboard.

“I was almost done with that.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.” 

Blue wire here, red wire there. The chip clacks into place and there’s a flash of pink light. V laughs in triumph. 

Vik is still spinning around on his chair like a little kid.

It’s just a chair. Why is it so cute? Why is _he_ so cute? He’s grinning at her like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. Cocky bastard. 

God, she's missed him. The holo doesn’t do his voice, his face, his presence any justice. Having him here close to her even without words. Just...existing.

Just existing.

The scene from the vid.

Now she gets it.

She sets the bot down, stands and leans over to cradle his face in her hands, runs her thumbs over his textured skin.

He puts her palm to his lips.

Her heart soars.

V leans down, kisses him.

To her relief, he only takes a brief second before his mouth eases and parts to kiss her lower lip, and he brings a rough hand under her chin. Just like she was hoping. Heavy breaths collide as they draw closer, her hands in his hair, his on the small of her back, and she needs to inhale, but she needs his mouth and his lips and his tongue—more, more, so much more.

They finally part, foreheads pressed together while catching their breaths, his lips blushing pink and swollen from the rough kiss. That much more enticing. She gently tugs his bottom lip with her teeth and he moans for her.

He stands from the chair to sit on the couch, pulls her onto his lap, and his hands are grabbing at her ass and, goddammit, he goes there, mouth right on that spot on her neck that has her swearing under her breath, sending goosebumps all over her skin and making her nipples pucker around their piercings, near-painfully scraping against the fabric of her sports bra. 

Large palms slide off her jacket, slip under her tank top and bra to peel them away and she's so cold the moment their bodies separate for those eternal three seconds, until his lips are at her throat, tracing a path down to her shoulders and across her chest, skilled tongue and mouth never once neglecting an inch of aching, eager flesh like summer sunshine warming over her amber-brown skin. She's curling into him, a primal instinct to press into the pleasure, a wordless plea for more, _more,_ when there are no more words left to say other than the breathless version of his name.

Her impatience has her pushing herself off him, relishing the way his eyes go wide behind his tinted glasses when she untucks his undershirt from his pants until he's matching her state of undress and she can touch and kiss and lightly run her nails over every scar, every tattooed line, every light patch of dark hair, every ripple of honed muscle that has him struggling to keep himself from writhing under her. It's when she's on her knees, reaching for his belt that he stops her, drapes his hands over her wrists, and gives her this heavy-lidded look tinged with what she assumes is concern. Guilt, maybe. And for once, she understands him without a word: _You don't gotta do this._

V kisses the top of his thigh, attempts a reassuring smile through her desire.

His throat works his Adam's apple, his nostrils flaring in a trembling inhalation and his hands ease away.

He's all hers.

And she savors every second of it, of him, every flutter of his trembling eyelids, the way his lips part in a sigh, the ruddy flush spreading from his face and down his neck and spilling over his chest, how the muscles over his belly contract to force his hips as still as he can manage. His hands tug at his own hair if only to have something to pull himself together because he's a mess, Viktor is a mess and she's undoing him, unraveling this calm and collected persona he's wrapped himself in and _God_ she wants to see all of it, wants all of him when he falls apart.

“ _Fuck,”_ he sighs.

Greed surges through her veins. Wants more. Craves more. Needs more of him.

But from the burning gaze he's giving her, he has the mind to return the favor first.

At his urging, she stands back up.

He starts with a feathery kiss to her belly as he undoes the button to her jeans, kissing his way down her waist, hips, and thighs as the denim and lace slips down. He’s so gentle, even when he’s nosing at the patch of hair over her mound, and it makes her pulse tremble.

“Lie down, sweetheart. I wanna see you.”

Despite jittery feeling in her stomach, she lies back on the couch as his frame stretches over her; he kisses her lips first, pays special attention to her neck, licking and sucking until she’s convinced she’s bruised, then her breasts, just like he’d asked her to do that night—teeth and lips pulling sparks of pleasure and pain entwined. He treats her body like a route of pilgrimage, every touch reverent and worshipful until he reaches her center. He glances up at her.

After a moment of apprehension, she eases her legs open.

He sighs, pausing to look at her; he caresses her, a finger tracing her slit far too easily before parting her. He’s staring so intensely at it she throws her arm over her burning face.

“So pretty,” he whispers, circling a fingertip around her clit while he spreads her open.

“Vik…” A whine of complaint or need—she isn’t sure.

“Look at me.”

He rewards her with a wet kiss over her clit and she moans for him. 

She's all his.

So easy now, a stroke like gliding through still waters, and another, and another, each sending rippling waves up her spine that would have her squirming were he not holding her down. A loving tug here, the press of a tender kiss, a heated puff of breath there, and she fears her nails may tear holes into the syn-leather. One, and she shivers, curses in her mother tongue. Her lip may split under the pressure of her teeth, but at two, she can't keep her mouth shut nor her fingers from gripping his hair. Slow. Methodical. Coaxing. No rush. Always his way, and never before has she been both more grateful and resentful of it. Three is shockingly easy now, so warm and pliable for him, but so intense and all thoughts vanish from her mind, no coherent words, only the beckoning instinct of movement, chasing that peculiar and incomparable high at the peak of this dance.

Until she falls.

Each exhalation is a weak, shaky cry that has her body going taut as it all hits at once, the most delightful of shocks, an ocean wave breaking against her.

Limbs go slack, leaving her quivering body to await the return of its sanity, the ability to verbalize.

Yet that dull twinge in her chest returns with tears she cannot draw back; the more she tries to bite it back, the more intense the sobs wracking through her shoulders. She half-expects him to get up, to stop, to freak out or try to fix her, to leave just like the others once they've gotten what they needed. Gathering the shambles of her courage, she looks at him just to gauge the damage she's done, whether he regrets this at all. 

He’s sitting on the other end of the couch. “C’mere,” he says and helps her onto his lap.

Vik hums and she's against that warmth she's craved, craves, is craving, wrapped in his arms with his lips on her forehead. Thumbs wipe away her cheeks, and she kisses him: once, twice. Crystal green eyes asking for the permission he's already had, and he brings them both back up to a simmer: slow, probing, reviving the spark to send them back into a gentle simmer.

Linked together, it's almost too much on her newly-raw nerve endings, but the small shocks melt away, pleasure amplifies until she can't hold her head up and he dives for that spot under her ear again that makes her thighs constrict around him, makes her whimper and arch back and bend into him.

There's no goodbye, no apartment, no sorrow, no fear. Only the sound of them. Need, heat, desire, vulnerability, desperation. Whispering sweet nothings in her ear, somehow both tender and filthy, as if anyone else could listen. His chest rumbles against hers and he's so close to that spot, hovering just close enough that the fine, downy hairs on her neck reach up for his touch. They're losing their rhythm, crescendo impending; she can see the panicked, ravenous effort in the crease of his brow and the intensity in which he holds her gaze, in the sweat beading over his forehead, the lack of air in their shared breath, lips parted, both gasping for air. And she doesn't care whether she joins him over the edge or not, she just needs to watch him fall apart for her. Her hips grind down in a frantic tempo, her hands anchoring her down over his shoulder and the back of his head until he's groaning and digging his fingers into her flesh and throwing his head back.

His face twists in the sweetest agony as raspy, loud, moaning breaths leave his throat and his body stutters, slowly descending from the high. A few flicks of his thumb and she follows him, tumbles down, all slick ecstasy. Green eyes are heavy but the sliver of eye contact he gives her is more than enough to warm her over, for a smile to dawn over her lips. He's a fucking sight all disheveled and sexed-out.

“What, you laughin' at me?” he mumbles sleepily, in good humor, as she rolls off of him.

V shakes her head.

“Just lookin'.” V cuddles up at his side, her short nails softly scratching over the light patch of dark hair over his chest. “Thinkin'.”

Another contented murmur and he pats her ass. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She leans in, hands cradling his jawline, and kisses him. “I love you. Missed you so fuckin' much. Thought you should know that.”

He beams up at her, kisses her shoulder. “Me too, _chica._ Me too.”

—

  
  


The Afterlife:

Word around the NUSA is if you’ve made it here, you’re halfway to the big leagues; The Solo likes to think he’s cut through the line and slipped under the velvet rope. The five years he spent fighting off hardened gladiators in the coliseum that is Militech gives him an edge these other amateur solos lack—namely, insight into the inner workings of one of the world’s top security corporations.

He descends the stairs into the sickly green smoke, dodging shoulders and glances and puddles of condensation dripping from poorly-insulated air ducts. 

The chrome-metal synth bass and snares seep through the heavy sheets of the hydraulic door and over the massive juice-head guarding it. He’s gotta be at least 6’5 and pushing 250 pounds of muscle straining under his skin. He seems to have the sense of humor of a wet dishrag. Fucking chump.

“Luka Kovacs. I have an appointment in ten minutes.”

The bouncer’s pale blue eyes scan him from head to toe. He doesn’t seem to be impressed. Big mistake. They glow blue and he turns his head to the side, the veins on his neck protruding like snakes.

“Boss. Got a guy here sayin’ he’s meeting with you in ten… Sure thing.” He nods at him, gives him another once-over and The Solo’s collar starts growing itchy. “Go on in,” he says and steps aside. “Current meeting’ll be over in five.”

He flashes him a grin before stepping into the dingy but sterile-scented club—a stark contrast to the alley and stairwell leading to it. Dancers clad in nothing but body tape writhe within repurposed cryogenic tubes full of water, their movements scratching the line between sensual and those of drowning. Groups of mercs lounge around the bar or the lounge, with others stretched out over the stairs like a bunch of slobs.

The bartender’s pretty, at least. She’s got full lips, a ponytail with a wavy brown tendril of hair that falls over her face, and quick hands that flip and strain the icy, cloudy contents in the tumbler into a chili-rimmed glass. _A Johnny Silverhand._ She slides it over to a patron. _Predictable._

A bloody-nosed merc passes by him. From the glow in his eyes, he’s on the holo.

“Yeah...Bitch wants us to go all the way to fuckin’ Japan.” He spits on his way out. “Yeah, see, that’s what the fuck I’m sayin’. But it’s whatever. Eddies and all that shit...Uh-huh.” His booming voice fades when the doors shut behind him.

Tough shit. Eddies better be good for a trip like that.

“I’ll have a Jackie Welles,” The Solo says.

The bartender winks at him and gets to work.

Aside from three other people the booth in the back looks clear enough. The ill-mannered oaf from before must have come from there; considering his churlish manner, it is of no surprise he left battered.

Once he gets his drink, he heads there. No sense in putting off a meeting when they could get it over with now. 

A colossal forearm slams into his chest the moment he approaches. Another large bodyguard lours down at him; he’s intimidating in a different way from the other bouncer, the kind of person who could pummel someone to an inch of their life and smile the entire time. He’s got cyberware eyes with three zoom lenses on the right and an orange panel blocking the left. A marksman. The Solo's scanner identifies him as a Crispin “Squama” Weyland.

The two others sitting at the booth have scramblers. No data found. Interesting.

The man to the left has a short platinum buzz cut and vintage circular glasses in gold frames to match his netrunner suit. He glances at the woman to his right. She’s scrolling through her phone. She wears a green and purple gas mask, a leather jacket with a white crop top, dark jeans, and construction boots. Suspended from a pewter chain around her neck are a gold signet ring and what seems to be a datashard. The Solo can’t decide what to make of her.

“I have an appointment,” he says. This place is testing his patience.

Weyland considers him a moment, then tilts back. “Yuh client here, boss,” he drawls.

The woman’s white-irises flick up to The Solo, holding his gaze for several seconds before toying with her phone. “Tell him to wait.”

What the fuck? He cuts time from his schedule to make this meeting with a generous ten minutes in advance and she doesn’t even give him the basic decency of acknowledging his presence?

“Dondonnet busy. Kom back more time.”

He would protest were it not for the hulking bodyguard. He could probably snap his neck. A dejected Solo goes back to the bar, schooling his features from reflecting the seething rage boiling under his skin. 

Three minutes later, there’s a piercing whistle.

“Oyee, corpo!” Weyland calls out. “‘Im a go see yuh now.”

Oh, now she’ll see him? Really?

That guy was right: fucking cunt.

The Solo storms into the booth, palms slippery around his drink. The woman is slumped down, lounging in her seat with her legs spread out. She motions the spot next to her and the netrunner moves over.

“Like to stand out, huh?” she says. “One of those take the boy out’ the corpo, but can’t take the corpo out’ the boy type situations?”

“What can I say?” He holds his arms out, proud in his stylish, tailored black suit and crisp garnet-red shirt. “I dress to impress.”

She chortles low and mirthlessly. “Try again.”

Street rat bitch. How many solos has she slept with and/or fucked over to climb to the top of Night City like this? Probably doesn’t know shit about business ethics and professionalism.

The Solo takes a seat next to her, crossing a leg over his knee. She wants casual? He can do casual.

“How do you feel about an ‘extraction’?” she asks.

Kidnapping. Easy. “Just another Tuesday in the Militech jungle.”

“That’s what I thought.” She slaps a shard on the table and nods to it.

The Solo slots it in and the red pixel display splays over his vision. A mugshot of a lanky wirehead with a metal-studded face is the first thing that catches his eye; the second is the name “Maelstrom.” 

“Client goes by Dum Dum.” Before he can ask she gives a noncommittal shrug. “I’unno, dude, your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, client needs you to get rid of his choom, one Simon Randall. Goes by Royce.”

What is it with this place and gargantuan men? Must be all the runoff water from the tap.

The upper half of his face looks like the remains of a breakfast grapefruit carved in with a spoon. Little sensors dot along the space where his eyes and frontal lobe should be. For the life of him, he will never understand these ‘borgs.

“Dum Dum’s got a loyal following, but Royce and his sycophants are packin’ serious chrome.”

They’re holed out in an old All Foods plant. He can only imagine the stench. His stomach is flipping already.

The bartender saunters into the room with a tray of drinks: a round of Jackie Welles. “Two Jackie Welles and a ginger beer with lime. Enjoy, V.”

The two women wink at each other in some unsaid sentiment before the bartender (Claire, she says). _V?_ As in the Konpeki Plaza heist V? As in screw-over-Meredith-Stout, V? Arasaka Tower massacre V?

Luke blinks, switches the right leg for his left, over the other knee, and slips a finger between his collar and neck.

“What’s the pay?”

V nods at the netrunner, who types something out on an old-fashioned Agent before sliding it over.

Nearly a month’s pay for running COMINT for Militech. The Solo whistles.

“There _is_ a bonus,” she adds. “If you’re interested, that is.”

Bonus. The Solo loves that word. It means excellence and luxury and recognition. What else could a mortal want in this dying rock of a planet? 

“Let’s hear it.”

Her eyes narrow. Probably smiling.

“Nova.” She leans forward. “An extra 20% if you bring him alive. EMP him, maim him, doesn’t matter as long as he’s halfway conscious. Bring him to the warehouse on Martin. Nix’ll flick you the deets.” She removes the mask to take a sip of her ginger beer. Odd-looking woman. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Easier said than done. Aside from the Black Lace this man is most certainly on, he’s got Fenner ACPA with virtual reality interface and improved finned aerial rocket launchers. He’d wager half a mil they’re heat-seeking. Tough job.

But an extra 20% and improved street cred…

Lucrative. Impossible to refuse.

“Well?” V says and takes another sip of her drink. “You in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finished! *ugly cry*
> 
> Thanks to all of you who've read and thanks a bunch for all of your kudos and lovely comments! They've truly made this Panini lockdown a lot less sucky. <3


End file.
